Trovommi Amor
by icey cold
Summary: Where he was dark, she was fair. Where he was unsure, she was certain. Where he was the villain, she was the hero. But they were both heroes, weren't they? He of River Dane, and she of Ferelden. The love story of the reluctant Wardens. Mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Trovommi Amor**

_Everything is owned by EA and Bioware. I, unfortunately, own nothing. _

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It was the day the sun's ray had turned pale  
with pity for the suffering of his Maker  
when I was caught, and I put up no fight,  
my lady, for your lovely eyes had bound me.

It seemed no time to be on guard against  
Love's blows; therefore, I went my way  
secure and fearless--so, all my misfortunes  
began in midst of universal woe.

Love found me altogether disarmed and found the way  
was clear to reach my heart down through my eyes  
which are now the portal and passageway of tears.

It seems to me it did him little honor  
to wound me with his arrow in my state  
and not even to show his bow to you, who were armed.

--Petrarch,_ "__Era il giorno ch'al sol si scoloraro"_

**Chapter 1**

_It was over like it had begun. _

_They were at the highest point in the highest tower of Denerim. The darkspawn had swarmed Fort Drakon and were climbing every staircase and wall to get to their master. Mages and templars fought side by side to hold the beasts at bay while the Grey Warden and her allies worked to thin the sea of enemies that lay between them and the Archdemon. _

_ The clash of swords reminded the Warden of the first time she had ever tasted battle, when she was still young, naïve and flirting with courtiers in the safety of her father's home. Embittered with her sense of loss, she had taken up her father's sword and shield and fought. Now again filled with loss, she had taken up her own sword and shield and was fighting for the last time. The passion and the resolve she had felt at her first kill was rekindled with each blow her shield absorbed or stroke of her sword arm. This was right; this was good. This was how it was meant to be. _

_ Her keen and experienced eyes surveyed every critical battle point, tirelessly watching out for allies and enemies alike. "Morrigan, watch the left flank!" And so the witch of the wilds did, shifting and spinning and casting with her wild and dark magic. "Dane, mind your paws!" And her little Mabari halted just in time to avoid the grease that one of the darkspawn had thrown. "Wynne, I'm injured!" Wynne's magic passed through a gap in her armor and healed the flesh rendered by an arrow. _

_ So it was that the long night on the tower passed. Commands issued, orders obeyed, magic oozing through the air and the bellowing of one single, piercing scream made the night complete. _

_ The Archdemon had been separated from its flock, and it was now just it and three weary humans and a dog in the final battle. The mages and the templar were busy on the other side of the fortress and while the darkspawn were overwhelming them, they were not going to reach their master in time. _

_ The huge dragon was injured, rotting flesh and singed scales were falling off its body from the magical and mechanical barrage. The great wings on its back had been pierced by the massive ballista it had just now crushed and one eye had been punctured by a stray arrow. Still, the Archdemon was dangerous and a force to be reckoned with. It waited, and it watched. The four were coming close…_

_ The one in the front was the Grey Warden. She smelled like It, but was not It. It did not care about the other three, for the one in front brandished the shining sword and armor. It was a great and powerful wyrm, though It had forgotten much of its past in dark slumber…but It knew that the moment It had awakened for come. _

_ Hot, fiery breath shot from the Archdemon's mouth, and the Grey Warden pulled up her shield. The metal glowed orange from the heat, and warmed the leather bindings of her gloves. She peaked around the edge of it, sword out, and edged forward again. _

_ "Do not take any direct blows from its claws or it will crush you!" yelled Morrigan over the distant din of battle. _

_ "I don't think we have much of a choice!" she yelled back. "Wynne…"_

_ Wynne was casting some sort of shielding charm as she charged, shield held high and sword arm poised to strike. Being smaller than a dragon had many advantages, especially when that dragon was mortally injured. Even in her heavy armor, she was able to twist away from the beast's wrenching claws. Still, she could not entirely avoid being ravaged, as with a great crack her shield arm was shattered by a well-aimed tail swipe. _

_ She screamed in pain and rage, unable to hold up the heavy burden of the Grey Warden's crest. Dane had distracted the Archdemon long enough for her to stagger up and away towards Wynne, shoulders squared resolutely. The Mabari, being much more agile and hearty than his human mistress, evaded the Archdemon's blows at every turn, and its growls and barks were enough to keep its attention. _

_ "Fix it…please…"_

_ Wynne was leaning heavily on her staff, "I…I will try." _

_ But the battle had taken its toll on the elder mage, and what little magic she had left to spare was not enough to fix the bones and soothe the flesh. "Morrigan…" Wynne said thickly, "heal her arm."_

_ The Witch looked taken aback, "I…I can not. I was never taught the sort of magic you seek." She spat out a curse. "Do not look at me such; it has never been an issue before. The battle isn't over yet, she can still fight!"_

_ "It will be, very shortly," Wynne tapped her staff against the Warden's arm, casting another cantrip as she did so. "I…that is all I have left."_

_ She nodded her thanks, arm hanging limply by her side, long since having abandoned the idea of holding her shield. Her other hand gripped her sword tightly. "Then that will have to do. Thank you…both of you." She turned back to the Archdemon, who had Dane trapped in the wreckage of the ballista. It was snapping at him with its large jaws, but could not get to him because of the way the great beams and springs were positioned. Dane huddled against the wood, growling and barking, taunting the dragon that was so close to ripping him in two, but also so far away. _

_ Then suddenly the Archdemon was rearing its head back to incinerate the poor dog, when the Grey Warden had the most marvelous idea. She charged headlong at the dragon, her blade at the ready. Iron clad feet rushed across the stone, met one of the huge coils of the ballista, and sprang forward into the air. Never before had the likes of such a daring frontal assault been seen before! Her blade arched and sliced downward as she felt gravity's return. Through tendons and sinew and scale her sword cut, until it had passed through the other side. _

_ The great head of the beast flopped to one side as its neck contorted and then was finally severed by its own weight… and she along side the Archdemon slept with the dreams of those ready for death. The blue light and the screaming, whistling wind of an Old God's ancient power washed over her, through her, in her and spread across the night sky. _

_ The fight was over, and so was she. _

--

Light was coming in through the single window. Her eyes opened, weak and bleary from lack of use. Her tongue and skin both hot and thick with sleep, she struggled forward against the sheets.

She had overslept and had probably missed breakfast. No doubt Nan wouldn't feed her until dinner, so she'd have to resort to begging the cook for some scraps until she relented and made her a special hot breakfast. Oh, how her mouth watered… sausages, bacon, eggs, stewed tomatoes… Her stomach growled! She'd have to go to the kitchen right now…

But as her eyes came into focus, she realized that this wasn't home. Nor was it any place that she recognized at all. There were tapestries on the walls depicting a woman being burnt and great dogs in the middle of a hunt… yes, Andraste and Mabari she recognized individually, but never together in one place. Therefore she wasn't in a chantry (since she knew all the verses in the Chant of Light and never once did the Mabari show up at Andraste's pyre, so obviously this was an artistic representation which would have been scandalous in any chantry outside Orlais). But where was she?

She pulled back the covers and examined herself. The shift she was wearing was white and nondescript. She could feel that it was light and soft against her skin. It looked like it covered her from neck to toe. Prudish.

Kicking the sheets down, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She stretched left, then right, feeling a dull ache in her left arm as she did so, and looked for her clothes.

The cabinets contained sheets and various vials and colored tinctures. There was nothing draped over the nearby chairs or resting on the windowsill. Everything wearable here seemed to be bed linen related.

The sound of shuffling skirts and light footsteps were heard on the other side of the door, and she barely had enough time to lower herself back to the bed before two women in pale blue gowns entered. The first had her hair covered by some sort of white silken scarf, while the other had her hair tied back into a neat braid.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed the first to enter, smiling at her with surprisingly white and even teeth. "We leave for a few minutes and you choose that time to awaken!"

"Not a moment too soon, either!" chimed the second with a voice that sounded like birdsong, "for the other Grey Wardens are due to arrive any day now."

She frowned, "the...other Grey Wardens?"

"Why yes, my lady," said the first, "all the way from Orlais! They were…coming to pay their respects, I think, though word has now certainly reached them of the miracle."

"The miracle…" the Grey Warden frowned, "what is the miracle?"

The second one blinked rapidly, taken aback. "You mean…you don't know?"

She shook her head. "Of course not, I just woke up."

"You are the miracle, my dear." The first woman sat beside her on the bed, and pushed a lock of hair from the Grey Warden's face. "I am Elissa, by the way, part of the Circle. This is my apprentice, Winifred. We have been your healers."

And then it all came back to her like a stone sinking into the ocean. She slowly lowered herself back down against her pillows. "I'm supposed to be dead."

Winifred giggled, "Yes, silly, that's the miracle! You're alive. You were the first one to slay an Archdemon and live!"

"And no one died?" she put her hand to her forehead, thinking she must have been delirious with fever.

"Well, plenty died," Elissa said softly, "but that is the nature of battle."

"Alistair…Loghain…they live?" the words from her mouth were tentative, questioning, and mostly unbelieving.

"The King and the General both live, yes." Elissa frowned, pursing her lips in concern. "Though neither of them is happy about the predicament, I am told."

The Grey Warden peaked out from behind her hand. "What do you mean?"

"It is not my place to speak of it, really…" Elissa's eyes darted away from the Grey Warden's face.

But Winifred was happy to explain. "King Alistair is upset that Teyrn, pardon me, _General_ Loghain isn't dead; and General Loghain is upset that he isn't dead either."

She chuckled quietly, "I have a hard time believing that Loghain would be upset. That man is the most pragmatic…" she searched for a good word to describe Loghain, but could not explain him beyond the obvious, "man that I've ever come across."

"King Alistair was in quite an uproar when the templars brought you back, you know," Winifred continued. "They were carrying you on their shields."

"…I was being carried by the _templars._" She frowned. "Don't tell me that Greagoir was holding point?"

Winifred shook her head. "No, my lady, he was in the rear with your shield and sword. Ser Bryant was in the front, I'm told."

She frowned. Why would the templars of _all people _carry her broken and battered body down from the battlements? She asked as much.

It was Elissa who gave her the answer she hoped to hear. "Because you weren't dead, and they were not convinced that it wasn't the work of the mages that kept you in a state of undeath. However, they weren't about to nullify your body if that was the case, since no one wanted the responsibility of potentially killing you. Thus they assumed responsibility for your well being initially, before finally relinquishing your care back to the Circle once Greagoir had convinced himself that it was the Maker's will."

"Well, it was the Revered Mother who convinced him, actually," Winifred's giggle was one of delight, "otherwise I don't think he would have ever left your side."

"Purely professional relationship, I assure you."

"Be that as it may, my lady, many people are going to want to see you now that you have awoken hale and whole as before." Elissa's hand wandered over to the Warden's left arm. "This will probably pain you for the rest of your life, but once you have become accustomed to the ache you will learn to ignore it."

The Grey Warden nodded. "I understand. My arm was shattered…I was not quick enough to avoid the Beast's tail. I'm surprised you could fix it."

Elissa smiled. "A well trained healer can fix just about anything, even dark wounds such as yours. Winifred and I were happy to serve the Hero of Ferelden."

"No…don't call me that," she cringed, "that is not fanfare I want."

"Very well then, my lady," Elissa bowed her head in acknowledgement. "I suppose you probably wish to have some freedom?"

She nodded. "Yes, yes I would. A pair of clothes would be lovely, and some shoes…and Ser Dane too."

Winifred hummed in thought. "The first two I can get you easily enough, though I'm afraid we can't let you have any male visitors…"

The Grey Warden colored. "Oh, no no no! Ser Dane… Dane is my Mabari. He…he is well, he is safe?"

"Oh!" Elissa sighed. "Yes, the Mabari. Of course. He's in the kitchens chewing on a bone. That is about all he will do these days. He whines, eats, chews on his bone, and sleeps. He misses his mistress, no doubt."

"And his mistress misses him," the Warden replied with a rueful smile, which was broken by the sound of her stomach gurgling. "And she has missed her breakfast too. I am famished."

Elissa smiled and nodded. "Well, Winifred will fetch you some clothes and we shall all three of us go to the kitchens."

And that was the beginning, perhaps, of the last easy day that our Grey Warden knew.

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_And as always, a lot of love and thanks goes to my beta, best friend and muse Lady Winde. Without her, there would be nothing. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Word had spread like wildfire that she was awake. Once she had stepped foot outside of her room to go to the kitchens, her solitude ended completely. As soon as she had returned to her door with a tray of food in one had, a flagon of something sweet and delicious in the other, and her retinue of canines and mages, she was greeted by a gaggling, squawking herd of people she'd never seen before in her life.

She stared, eyes widened slightly, at the crowd who stared back at her with much the same expression of fear and awe. "I just want to eat," she managed to say calmly, "for I have not eaten in days. I will answer your questions later. Just, I beg you, please let me eat. The cook even made me stewed tomatoes!" She gestured futilely with her mug at the small bowl of steaming delicious goodness.

And all at once the sound of hundreds of voices all speaking in unison and discord assaulted her ears. She fled (and she was quite willing to admit she fled) into the safety of her room and had barely let Winifred slip in before she shut it closed with a swift kick and let Elissa lock it behind them.

"I knew we shouldn't have let that scullion leave," grumbled Winifred as she set about making the Warden's bed. "He probably alerted the entire castle."

Taking a long drink from her tankard, the Grey Warden waited patiently to sit while Winifred chattered on.

"That boy's always been trouble anyway. Why, he'd spread terrible rumors that Queen Anora was with child, when all she had was flatulence!" Winifred clicked her tongue. "It's only because he's the cook's lover's son that he stays on…" Winifred smoothed out the sheet, and gestured for the Warden to take a seat.

"Now who is the one gossiping?" Elissa swatted her apprentice with the flat edge of the comb she had procured from a passing maid servant. "You'll have to forgive Winifred, she is still quite young."

"I am surprised to see an apprentice outside of the Tower," commented the Grey Warden, seating herself carefully back on the bed. The corset she wore over her blouse dug sharply into her ribs, reminding her that she was not allowed to slouch. She balanced the plate of food on one leg, and slipped the mug between her thighs. A bit of the liquid splashed up over the rim and burnt her skin through the thin cloth of the pants, but she didn't wince. She didn't think she'd ever wince from food burns again after the searing heat of the Archdemon's breath. "They are normally locked up tight, I hear," she picked up one of her thick sausages and feasted on it eagerly, licking and sucking at the juices inside it. Her eyes fluttered shut in delight.

Elissa chuckled at the Grey Warden's purrs of pleasure and set about combing through the mass of hair on her head. "Technically Winifred isn't an apprentice, she is a full fledged mage. However, she _is_ a healer's apprentice."

"And a very talented one at that," was Winifred's happy response as she folded the used linen away into wicker hamper.

"Winifred was the one who managed to heal your arm," Elissa let the Warden's thick hair slip through the teeth of the comb, gently pulling out knots and untangling wayward curls. "When I first saw it, I was sure it would have had to…come off. Not for the fact that I could not repair the damage, but because of the magic that lingered. Winifred purged it."

"Yes I did!" sang the younger mage's voice. "Not easy, of course, since it was old magic that lingered from the Archdemon, but I had help."

Elissa scowled at Winifred from behind the Grey Warden's head. "Don't go speaking too much about that, you'll make good folk and the templars nervous."

"What?" the Warden turned her head to stare at Winifred curiously. "You had help? Like…demonic?"

Winifred's peal of laughter was delightful, like the sounding of silver bells in a spring wind. "No, silly. The fade has more than just demons!"

"She gets help from spirits," explained Elissa.

"Oh! Like Wynne." The Grey Warden nodded her head and winced as she pulled against Elissa's fingers. "Wynne is favored among the spirits, I'm told. She is very good at what she does…" She frowned. "She's well, yes?"

Winifred nodded. "She is, and she's here. Not _here_of course, but she's in Denerim. Both she and Irving are speaking with the templars. I don't know what about, but it seemed really important, because she hasn't been back to the castle for nearly a week."

"How long have I been sleeping for?" The Grey Warden carefully dipped a piece of toast into the small bowl of steaming tomatoes and with her finger pushed a large, round fruit onto the bread. She brought it to her mouth, and her eyes fluttered in bliss as the morsel warmed her from her mouth straight to her belly.

"Three weeks?" Winifred shrugged, turning her attention to the Mabari. "And oh but you have put on so much weight in those three weeks, haven't you? Haven't you?"

Dane barked happily at the attention, raising his head from his paws at the foot of his mistress's bed.

"He did look rather fat when I saw him," the Warden chuckled, and took another bite of the toast.

"He looks so sweet with his extra meat, don't you, you fat puppy? Yessss, fat puppy…" Winifred cooed at the dog, which made happy strangled whining noises at her.

"Do you want your hair up or down, my lady?" asked Elissa as she ran the comb through her charge's hair one last time. It had been washed the night before, and now ran smooth and glossy against the comb's teeth.

"Up, I think." The Warden took a swig of her drink. "I haven't had it down since…well; I don't think I've worn it down since before Ostagar." At Winifred's slightly disgusted stare, she laughed. "Bathing not withstanding, of course." The younger mage looked mollified.

Elissa let her fingers glide through the thick, flaxen hair before her, dividing sections and evaluating the texture. "Braided or not?"

"Braided. Tightly, if you would. I hate it when hair falls in my eyes."

Elissa nodded. "It shall be as you say." Her fingers parted and twisted hair quickly and efficiently, and the four spent their time in companionable silence. The Grey Warden ate with much relish, dog lolled on his back for Winifred, who murmured gentle compliments to the large canine, and Elissa braided. As time progressed, the din of the courtiers outside faded away.

Her meal now long since finished, the Grey Warden gave a contented sigh and leaned back into the mage braiding her hair. She smelled like Wynne, faintly of magic but also of old books. It was comforting. "Was there anything planned for today in the castle?"

Winifred looked away from Dane. "Well, it is only early afternoon, so the nobility hasn't yet sat down to meet. King Alistair is probably free, and no doubt he is desperate to speak with you."

"That is good, for I am also desperate to speak with _him._" The Grey Warden clenched her jaw. They had a small matter of _why_she had survived to ask him.

"He's been ever so nervous. He's tried to come in here, you know. They all have, really, but him more than the rest." Winifred sighed. "But I was told that they'd just hinder your recovery."

"Who told you?" the Grey Warden's dark eyes narrowed. "The templars?"

"No, the spirits. In the Fade. They've been helping me tend you and have been giving me advice. But I think you're in the clear now." The healer's apprentice flicked her gaze to the door and back. "Oh, errr…maybe not."

_Rap. Rap. Rap._

Then a muffled voice came from across the other side of the thick door. "Is she decent? I'd like to speak with her."

She felt Elissa's cool hands glide down the sides of her neck. "Do you want to see him, child? You look presentable."

"Yes." Her voice was soft, but stern. "He can be let in. I will see him." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as Winifred hurried to remove her breakfast plate and mug and hide them out of sight. _I am ready for you, Alistair._

Elissa slowly opened the door. "You can come in."

But it wasn't Alistair on the opposite side. It was Loghain, someone that our Grey Warden had not expected to see. He was dressed like she was used to seeing him, completely covered in heavy plate as though he was afraid he would be struck down within the castle. By all rights, that fear was probably justified given that Alistair hated him and wanted him dead for his crimes.

"It is good to find that you are awake," he said slowly, his eyes surveying across the landscape of the room. "Or that at least the rumor mill in the castle is growing more accurate." He crossed the threshold and stood before her, his stance ill at ease even in the tiny, well lit room.

"I'm surprised to see you, actually," the Warden gave him a tired smile.

"Did you hope I'd turn up as dead?" was his dry response. "Because if so there's still time for that."

She frowned. "No, I was more expecting to be dead. I hadn't anticipated a…reunion. With anyone." She stared at him pointedly. "You were successful, then, in holding the gates?"

"Yes, I was." He frowned, "The Qunari was especially helpful."

"Sten is nothing but helpful on a battlefield, and always willing to take command when needed," she said wryly. "Sometimes a bit _too_willing, though he always carries out my orders to the letter. Did you know he likes paintings?" Chuckling, she cast her eyes on the two mages and the Mabari who waited in silence for the meeting to end. "Painting is a discipline; it isn't just about where the stroke starts but where it ends too. Very much a part of the Qun."

Loghain regarded her with a level stare. "I can't claim to know much about Qunari philosophy. They like war; they will try to invade us. That's all I need to know about the Qunari."

She laughed. "Well! I was just trying to make some conversation."

"Is this the time when the senior Grey Warden tries to learn more about her new recruit?" He frowned and shifted his weight. "What do I call you, anyway? Is it 'Commander' or 'Captain' or 'General?'"

"We…Alistair and I, always called Duncan…Duncan." She shrugged, nonplussed. "I assume you would probably do the same. I don't know a lot about Grey Warden protocol; I was hoping to get to Weisshaupt so that I could learn more. It would be useful to know how to prepare the Joining, and how to properly invoke the Right of Conscription. Why, did your encounter with Grey Wardens in the past warrant a military title?"

"No," Loghain shook his head, dark hair slipping over the brightly polished armor. "She was addressed as Lady _Genevieve_."

"That can suffice as well," the Grey Warden regarded him with a curious stare, "is this why you look so uncomfortable? You don't know protocol?"

"No, I am used to commanding, not following." He shifted again.

"May I take some delight in your awkward and unnatural position?" she teased him from her place on the bed. "Could I ask you to stand at attention? Salute for me?" At the look he gave her, she laughed and held up her hands in placation. "I am teasing, I am teasing! Surely there is a sense of humor in there somewhere?"

"It was beaten out of me by a chevalier," was his terse response.

She sighed, and shaking her head stood.

Loghain was always surprised that this woman could stand tall enough to meet his eyes with ease. She was more slender than he, especially when he was fully armored and she was not… but he knew behind the deceptive billowing sleeves of her shirt that her shoulders were as broad as her hips and her arms were strong from the heavy shield she carried. Formidable woman, but then all Fereldan women were.

"You came here to see me for a reason," she canted her head to one side as she regarded him, "what's on your mind?"

"The same thing that is on everyone else's. I wanted to see the miracle for myself," replied Loghain in his matter-of-fact manner, though when he spoke it was to the wall, rather than her. "The templars and nobles are all quite surprised."

"You're telling me. _I _am quite surprised." She flicked her eyes down the length of him, assessing the risk of telling him the truth. It was fruitless, of course, since she didn't know the truth herself so, she played it safe. "I don't rightly know why I am still alive. I'll admit that I was disappointed to wake up."

Loghain raised an eyebrow at this. "Every soldier is thankful to awaken after battle, why should you be so different?"

"Because I'm not a soldier, I'm a Grey Warden." She scowled. "We die to stop Blights. The fact that I'm not dead could mean that the Blight is not stopped, which means I haven't done my duty."

"You lit up the night sky as if it was mid-afternoon. I know that was no mage's trick." Loghain turned from her and brushed back one of the faded curtains at the window to look outside. He let his eyes rest on the distant structure of Fort Drakon. "The Archdemon was beheaded, and then burnt. There is nothing left except buckets of its blood at the insistence of your Wynne."

The Grey Warden winced. "Oh, I bet the templars were not happy about that. They probably thought she was some sort of strange, corrupted blood mage for making a suggestion like that."

Loghain made a sound in his throat that sounded like something between a bark and a low chuckle. "I'll bet they did at that. Anyway, they agreed when it was explained to them that the blood was needed by the Grey Wardens. Seems everyone is willing to dance to your tune now, you know."

"Our tune, Loghain." She placed a firm on his shoulder and stood behind him, peering over her hand outside. "It is our tune now. You are a Grey Warden as well."

Her voice was warm, but strangely firm and Loghain felt her breath ruffle the hair tucked behind his ear. "I am an outsider in Ferelden. Heh. I would never have dreamed it happening in all my years."

"We will not be outsiders for long, if we are at all now," she would have squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, but the pauldron her hand rested against was cold and unyielding. _Much like the man just below it_, she mused. "We will find ourselves a home."

"You make it sound like finding a home and recruiting Grey Wardens is easy." Loghain tilted his head to look down at her. He watched the way her jaw tightened with resolve.

"It isn't." She sighed. "I suppose I should donate Highever to the Grey Wardens, seeing as there is no one to manage it. Howe killed my parents and Darkspawn probably did the same to my brother. I am the last Cousland."

"I hate to interrupt that egocentric notion, but you aren't the only surviving Cousland. Your brother still lives." He watched her jaw slacken and her eyes light up.

"Fergus…Fergus lives!" she beamed and pulled away from him, torn between him, the door, and her healers. "I should…no, I need to see him."

"Would you like me to find him," Loghain paused, thoughtful, "my lady?"

"Yes! Oh, if you would!" And suddenly her hands were all over his polished armor, shooing him and prodding him towards the door.

"Perhaps I shall find him before the Bannorn meet," Loghain sighed. "Or before the Bannorn find me." With that, he was gone from the room.

"I've never seen General Loghain up close before," said Winifred the moment the man in question had left. "He's more handsome than I thought."

Elissa narrowed her eyes and swatted her apprentice on the back of her head. "Don't let that head be filled with nonsense like whimsical fantasies. He is a father, a widow, twice your age, _and_you are a mage."

Winifred dropped her eyes demurely to her hands. "A very lonely mage indeed."

"Is that list in order of importance?" quipped the Grey Warden with a smile, "because the first three really haven't stopped anyone in the past. Well, actually, none of those things have stopped _anyone_, really_._"

Winifred gently nudged in the older mage's ribs. "You see, I told you she was going to be a good assignment."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Fergus arrived sometime later, with the joyful fanfare of rushed footsteps and fluttering hair. He banged on the door with the flat of his palm, "Sister! Sister!"

Elissa did not have time to open the door, because the Grey Warden was already there at the handle, wrenching it inward. "Fergus! Fergus!"

And so she opened it, and was swept up and around in a long-forgotten but fondly remembered hug. His arms encircled about her waist, and hers around his neck, and he hoisted her into the air as if she was twelve again and spun her about. She threw her head back and squealed in delighted laughter. Gone then was the somber Grey Warden who had just awoken from deathly slumber, replaced now by a happy, content young woman (for she was young, despite her toils). Fergus lowered her slowly back to the ground, though she rested against him and stood on her tiptoes to keep her brother embraced.

"You're awake! I came by to see you every day as soon as I arrived in Denerim, but they wouldn't let me in." His hands came up to catch her cheeks and he pulled her forehead towards his lips.

Winifred smiled at the sight, while Elissa watched on calmly. The young mage opened her mouth as if to speak, to join in on the family reunion, but at the gentle tugging on her arm from her mentor she closed it with a reluctant click of her jaw.

"We shall be back shortly," said Elissa, pulling Winifred with her to the door and out in a fluttering of pale blue silk.

Dane, awoken by a familiar scent, perked up and trotted over to Fergus. He gave the elder Cousland his customary greeting, a low and indifferent _woof, _because Dane had not forgotten that this was the Cousland who used to tie ribbons on his stumpy tail to be _funny _and who never, _ever _gave Dane scraps at the table. He would hold them just out of reach on the table's edge where he would be caught if he took them. Then there would be no scraps or bones for Dane.

"And you have Dane with you!" Fergus turned his attention from his sister to the large Mabari sitting complacently on his hindquarters starting at him. "How have you been, Ser Dane? Have you been keeping my baby sister safe?"

Dane gave another indifferent bark. _Whuff. _

"If he hasn't forgiven you now, Fergus, I don't think he'll ever forgive you," chuckled the Grey Warden, patting Dane's head fondly. "Because my valiant Ser Dane never forgets, does he?"

This time, Dane barked with gusto. He snuffled his nose around his mistress's feet, rubbing and twining against her legs in a serpentine manner. Playfully, she shooed him away with her boot and with a great, heaving breath he flopped to the ground at the foot of the bed and turned his back to her.

"Mean old Fergus and his mean old ribbons, yes, I know," Fergus sighed in feigned remorse and regarded his sister once more. "I expected you to look different, after everything you've been through."

"You expected me to be some scarred, crippled stump?" The Grey Warden made a _tsking_ sound. "I can't let mother's good looks go to waste."

Fergus looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry; I hadn't meant it like that. It is surprising to me that you can still look so youthful, after seeing so much. I've seen even a single death age a man beyond his years, and yet I only see it on your eyes."

"'The way that things have been lately," huffed the Grey Warden, "I'm surprised people are looking at my eyes at all. My first encounter with people again today, and I already feel like a prize cow being inspected by a judge. I haven't grown three heads, have I?"

"No, you're still at a count of two faces." Fergus patted her shoulder in fake consolation.

"Still the same old Fergus, I see," she beamed, "don't ever change, brother."

"I will try not to," he replied, though he sighed shortly after. "Though I don't know if that's going to be possible. So much has already changed."

The Grey Warden nodded her head and placed a tentative hand on her brother's chest. Her fingers traced a seam of embroidery on his tunic as she struggled to find the words to tell him of the bad news. "You…you have heard about," she took a deep breath, "About Oren? And Oriana?"

He nodded. "I did. As soon as I got back to civilization, the news of what Howe did to mother, father…my wife, my son…" he clenched his teeth and shut his eyes tightly. "I thought I would go mad with grief, and I nearly did when I had learned what had happened to you."

"What…what happened to you out there?" she asked, her fingers continuing their path while her eyes wandered around his face. It was so…guarded, so unlike the open Fergus who had left Highever. "I was so worried that you were going to be killed by Darkspawn, or that you had been already."

Fergus opened his eyes and stared at her intently. "I nearly was, to tell the truth. My men were ambushed, and most were slain." His hand came up to capture hers, and stilled its motions, trapping it over his heart in the process. "I was injured, and sick and weak from the cold. I was rescued by the Chasind, of all people. They tended to my injuries, helped me recover."

"When did you get back to Denerim?"

"A little more than a week ago?" he shrugged. "It is still very hard to take in."

"I know what you mean. When are you going back to Highever?"

Fergus frowned in thought. "As soon as the Bannorn has finished its business; you are the Kingmaker, my dear sister. The Bannorn is dealing with the consequences."

With weak laughter, the Grey Warden pulled away from her brother and took a seat on her bed (though she loathed letting him go in fear that he might suddenly vanish). She needed to rest her careworn bones and weary soul on something steady, since talk of Alistair was physically straining. "There's more politics to being a king than just being proclaimed as one?"

"There are debts from Cailan's rule and promises he or Anora made that need to be discussed… plus the Blight has destroyed a lot of prime farmland, and we need to figure out a way to feed the kingdom. There are so many things to be discussed," Fergus dropped to the bed beside her, lying flat on his back. "I can't say I'm ready for this. I have been to the Landsmeet before, but never have I had to raise issues or defend my stance. Father made it look so easy."

"Fergus," she patted his stomach, "you will be an excellent Teyrn. Father taught you everything he knew, and everything you don't know you will either pick up very quickly or be taught."

"I rather envy you, you know," Fergus looked at his sister through his long lashes, "you get to go around playing hero now."

"Oh, I don't know about that," the Grey Warden's smile was soft, but like so many smiles yet to come, it did not reach her eyes. "Lots of responsibilities with being a Grey Warden. Lots of things to do."

"I suppose," he grinned, "I guess I'll be the one with the warm bed and the roof over my head then this time, little sister, hmm?"

"I'm aquiver with jealousy," she said dryly, looking askance at him.

Fergus's grin widened. "Just trying to make the best out of the situation!"

"I can help you in picking the new Cousland household, if you like," offered our Grey Warden. "My domestic skills are probably better than yours, since mother taught me all she knew about running a household. I would defer to Oriana in normal circumstances but…well."

Fergus straightened up and rested his elbows on his knees, his head slightly bowed. Strands of his dark hair slipped over his sad eyes. "I would appreciate that. If you aren't too busy. When you aren't too busy, more like."

Her hand came out to gently stroke down the length of her brother's back, nails scratching against the fabric of his doublet. "You're the only family that I have, Fergus. You know I'd do anything to help." She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I love you. I'm so happy that you're all right."

Fergus grasped her hand in his, running his callused fingers over the backs of her own, "I love you too, little sister."

"I love him too; and I'm not even related."

Both the Grey Warden and her brother slowly turned their heads to stare incredulously at Winifred, who stared right back at them from the doorway with her devious grey eyes.

"Winifred!" scolded Elissa. Her head appeared above the younger mage's shoulder and it was scowling so deeply that her eyebrows melted together to form one continuous unibrow. "Did they teach you no manners?"

"Look at his jaw, Elissa! He could be carved from rock…" protested the younger mage, pushing herself back into the room. "Besides, he looked so sad! Everyone needs to be told they're loved to make them feel better. Even if it is from complete and utterly lovely strangers."

"I…er…" Fergus colored, "that is much appreciated."

"I'm Winifred. You can call me Winifred. Or Winnie. Or Win." The young mage was just about to move forward when Elissa's hand came down firmly on her shoulder.

"I'll never be able to take you back to the Circle now..." Elissa sighed woefully, "and they'll never let you out of templar sight again…"

Winifred shrugged away the hand. "I _never _complained about being watched by the templars _ever. _In fact, my record is - "

"Not worth discussing!" finished Elissa quickly. "Go back to what you two were doing." The older mage hovered at the door way, staring at her apprentice and mentally commanding her to follow suit.

"Of course," the Grey Warden tipped her head in response to Elissa.

"Have they really been with you all this time?" asked Fergus, his voice dropped low into a whisper. "Do they make you nervous?"

The Grey Warden shook her head and replied to him in kind. "No, I really like them; and most mages too, for that matter. Before them, I was apparently tended by Knight Commander Greagoir!"

"Who, by the way, is an incredible pervert," commented Winifred as she passed them, carrying a stack of fresh linen towards the cabinets.

"I heard the story, Winifred," growled the older mage, "and you can not call it perversion if you decide to walk around the grounds of the Circle in wet robes."

"I wasn't referring to _that,_" Winifred rolled her eyes. She stuffed the clean linen away quickly, and then rested her back against the wooden cupboards, folding her arms across her chest. "Just the way that he was looking at her when she was sleeping."

"When I was sleeping?" the Grey Warden frowned.

"Who else was sleeping in this room with Knight Commander Greagoir standing watch over them, clutching his sword tightly in hand, breathing heavily at the sight of potential foul magic?" asked Winifred none too innocently.

The Grey Warden put a hand to her forehead. "My, that image that she just conjured…"

Fergus nodded in sympathy and rubbed her back.

"It is different for them to watch us when we sleep, that's quite normal, but it is quite abnormal for them to watch others." Winifred paused, thoughtful. "Do you think that they get practice by staring at other templars while they sleep? You would really have to practice just looking, and not blinking, to perfect it…"

"I would rather you didn't do it on me when I was sleeping," said the Grey Warden, "I'll get jumpy, and bad things may happen."

"Well, if I can't practice on the Lady Cousland, perhaps I can on the Teyrn?" twittered Winifred, her tone playful as she batted her eyes. "I am ever so discreet."

Fergus shook his head, "No, Winifred, I am jumpier than my sister these days."

"I think she'd be good for you, Fergus," the Grey Warden nudged her brother with her shoulder. "She could conjure little butterflies and fairy lights to put you to sleep."

"And turn annoying courtiers into toads too. My talents are many," Winifred bowed her head.

"And your modesty is great," grumbled Elissa, motioning for Winifred to come with her. "Forgive my apprentice, Teyrn Cousland. She's a wonderful healer, but a bit too zealous in knowing her patients."

"Normally I would be happy to reciprocate her attention, but events are still…" Fergus looked pained, "too new. But the effort is much appreciated."

"I can still turn frogs into courtiers for you. Err…turn courtiers into frogs! Sorry," Winifred chuckled, "thoughts got crossed there."

A soft knocking on the partially open door interrupted the discussion.

Elissa stiffened and turned, the scarf covering her hair fluttered upwards to reveal the older mage's graying hair. "What can I do for you?"

An elven servant stood directly behind her, her hands folded before her in respect. Though her appearance was plain she wore a heavily decorated doublet, as if all that truly mattered about her was the emblem she wore on her breast. "The Teyrn and Lady Cousland are here, yes?"

"Yes," replied Elissa slowly, "they are. Why, are they required?"

The elf nodded. "Yes, their presence has been requested at today's session. If Lady Cousland does not feel well enough to attend, then she is to rest. The Teyrn, however…"

"I will ask her, one moment," Elissa slipped into the room and shut the door behind her. She turned to the two Couslands, regarding each with her solemn brown eyes. "Well, you heard all of that. The Teyrn has to attend, but what of you?"

"I…will go," said the Grey Warden after a moment of thought. "Though I am not sure if what I'm wearing is appropriate, and I don't want to trouble you with the burden of finding me a dress at such short notice." She shot a surreptitious glance down at herself, knowing that the mages would have trouble acquiring a dress that would fit her properly. She was not a small woman, and while she was decidedly malnourished after everything that had occurred, her shoulders were still broad from swordplay and her hips were still wide from her mother.

"Your current attire is fine, I should think." Fergus regarded her with a brotherly smile, "Bann Teagan has been wearing leather jerkins and boots to every meeting so far. I am sure you could get away with your stylish shirt, corset, pants and boots. You're a Grey Warden, not the Queen of Orlais."

"Could I have a leather jerkin?" asked the Grey Warden with hope, "I feel so vulnerable with my neck and chest exposed." An absent hand came up to touch her throat. "Or my armor. Did my armor survive?"

"It is being repaired and refashioned," explained Winifred.

"Oh." The hand fell back to her lap. "Do you know when it will be done?"

Winifred shrugged. "If you asked that, I was told to tell you, 'Master Wade,' and that you'd understand what it meant."

"Aggghhh!" The Grey Warden's hands balled into fists, "I'll never see that armor again in my lifetime!"

"You'll be attending then?" asked Elissa, crossing her arms over her chest.

Sighing, the Warden nodded. "Yes, yes, I'll go."

Elissa returned to the door, stuck her head out and nodded at the elf. "Yes, she'll be attending."

* * *

_Thank you all for the lovely reviews so far! Next up, the ever so charming Bann Teagan. _


	4. Interlude I

**Interlude I: The Night Before the Final Battle  
**

_He caught her arm as she turned to leave, amazed once more that she was real; that this woman, barely out of childhood was destined to save Ferelden. She lifted her gaze from the floor to stare at him questioningly, eyes flitting between the hand on her arm and at his face. Her own face was solemn, and he could see the darkness of resolve and regret in her already darkened eyes. _

_ Her question was only natural. "Something more you wish to add to the plan tomorrow?" _

_ Loghain shook his head. "No, I want you to reconsider the plan entirely."_

_ A fair eyebrow arched up into her hairline. She was regarding him with some mild amusement. "Oh? What would you suggest?"_

_ The hand at her arm pulled away and he turned from her towards the map of his beloved Ferelden that hung on the wall. His eyes wandered over Gwaren, over Denerim,, even over her own lands of Highever far to the north that were so far removed from the hills and rivers of his home. "If anyone should take the final blow tomorrow, it should be me. I have much to atone for."_

_ "No, I can't allow you to do that." _

_ Loghain imagined the resolve in her eyes now spreading across her face, and could see her in his mind's eye crossing her arms over her chest in disapproval and stubborn resistance of the idea. Still, as his eyes traveled over to the border with Orlais, he felt the need to press on and change her mind. "Don't play games with me, young lady. This is why you recruited me into the Grey Wardens, isn't it?"_

_ The scratching of stone floors by heavy boots reached his ears. She was walking towards him. "No, I recruited you into the Grey Wardens because your life is better spent recruiting men and leading armies than staining the floor of the palace with your blood, pride and honor." _

_ Down now they traveled to the Frostbacks, where Orzammar and the Deep Roads were hidden. "And what good is it for me to recruit and lead when you think me a xenophobic man capable of all manners of depravity?" _

_ "When all this is over, it won't matter who you were." She had come to stand beside him, looking at the map before looking to him. Her hand, warm and free of her heavy gauntlets, came up to catch his shoulder and his attention. Reluctantly, Loghain turned to look at her and she continued on having captured his eyes, "Ferelden needs heroes, Loghain. It doesn't need young upstarts. You are the Hero of the River Dane. Everyone will remember that come the dawn of the battle's end."_

_ "Heh, I am not so certain that will be the case." His eyes flicked back to the tiny, painted castle the represented Denerim. _

_ She squeezed his shoulder, her fingers passing over the rough-spun fabric of his tunic. In the corner his armor lay newly-polished and shining, reflecting the light of the crackling fire in the hearth. Without it Loghain was subject to the distractions and manipulations that simple touch and tone could evoke. The Grey Warden knew this, for she was both woman and warrior, and could use the strength of her muscles and the subtly of her words to make her point understood. "I am. You have to have faith in me." Like the lick of the fire's flames, her fingers bit into him. _

_ "I do have faith in you but," Loghain's sigh came loudly and not without a frustrated grunt, "your death is a waste. You are young; there is much yet that you can do, but you seem eager to march to your death." _

_ "I have never been eager to meet death."_

_ "Is that so?" He looked back at her, recognizing now the features of both Eleanor and Bryce Cousland. Like a map, he read her face. He noticed the landmarks and the telltale signs of her birth: the Teyrna's high cheekbones and pointed jaw, the Teyrn's full lips and stormy eyes, all of which were worn now with finality._

_ She made a scoffing sound in the back of her throat, denying his accusation. "Some things are just necessary. You know this." She drew her head back, staring at him with eyes half-narrowed. "You're a tactician." _

_ His own eyes narrowed. "And I have made many tactical errors; but I also know them when I see them." _

_ "I am not making a tactical error." This time it was she who turned away from him. She bowed her head as she walked, her hands gesturing down by her sides as she spoke. Her voice came in the quiet, hushed tones that only the surest and most desperate of dreamers can manage. "You are the best rallying point of Ferelden: a commoner come noble, tried and tested in the field of battle, who fell from grace and was redeemed. Everyone will come to you…" She paused, stopping just past his bedpost, laying a hand on it to support herself. Her last words were so quiet that she feared Loghain might miss them. "…for your story is greater than mine." _

_Then she turned to look at him over her the curve of her shoulder, her eyelashes obscuring most of her gaze, but still Loghain knew it nonetheless. She was not a child in her father's armor playing at grown up games like he kept trying to tell himself, she was a warrior and she had made up her mind. Though the disquiet he felt at the notion of her death was still settled in his gut, he felt something growing in there along side it. Was it envy? Anger? She was his commander, and he was beholden to obey her word, but she was young and foolish and…_

_She had faced him, curling inward towards her arm and resting her chest against the bedpost, her mouth twisted up into a smile. "You know I named my Mabari for your victory." _

_ And perhaps it was her tone, or the nostalgic switch of topics (for he thought Dane was magnificent and couldn't not be flattered at the sentiment), but Loghain couldn't find himself to disagree with her. All he could do was let his shoulders droop in defeat and exhale the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I made the mistake of underestimating your political ability at the Landsmeet, and you continue to surprise me. I wonder if this is a trend of every Teyrn's daughter?"_

_ "If Anora is any indication, perhaps it is." She chuckled, now resting her cheek against the polished wood. "I know that it will serve her well as Teyrna of Gwaren."_

_ "She'll never survive the change from kingdom to province," Loghain chuckled darkly, "though I suspect she'll expand Gwaren's borders within a few years."_

_ "We daughters are resilient; she'll be fine." _

_ Loghain watched her eyes dart quickly to the map over his shoulder and then back to his face. What would Bryce Cousland have said to this situation? He was a grown man physically capable of overpowering her and forcing her from the battle tomorrow, yet he was cowed by her determination and seemingly unbothered air. The dead Teyrn probably would have laughed in his face and shrugged his shoulders, exclaiming, 'that is just how she is, Loghain. Just like her mother!' _

_ The other Teyrn had seemed able to see his daughter as a grown woman with her own destiny. He, on the other hand, could only see the echoes of Anora in her face… and Anora would always be six years old, with skinned knees and fierce eyes. Still, would he have locked Anora in the highest tower on the highest peak if she was here before him, telling him that tomorrow she would die the death she was meant to? _

_No. He probably wouldn't have. Still, for the sake of all fathers everywhere, he had to try one last time to reason with the Grey Warden and get her to save her own life. "You shouldn't take the blow tomorrow." _

_ Like a book quickly shut, her openness and jocularity retreated back into that part of her still untouched by the horrors of war and circumstance. She was standing straight and tall like a commander. Her shoulders were stiff and her jaw firm. The Warden was retreating from him, leaving no room for discussion in her wake. "I will see you tomorrow. Try and get some sleep."_

_ He watched her stalk towards the door. "I never sleep before the battle. My mind wanders, and it is impossible to rest." Her hand stilled at the handle as he spoke, and she looked over her shoulder at him with the same expression he had seen earlier. But then she was gone, like the sound of a storm having just passed overhead, she was gone. _

_

* * *

_

_I lied about Teagan, but I couldn't get this out of my head. This had to come first, I'm afraid. We'll get to the Landsmeet soon, I promise! And once more, thank you all for the lovely reviews and for sticking with the story and the premise!  
_


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Do they serve food there?"

Walking side by side down the dimly lit corridor, the Grey Warden and her brother shared a private conversation as they trailed behind the livery-garbed elf. The servant was ushering them quickly and quietly down hallways that neither of them recognized, and though both Couslands knew they were in no danger, it did not stop their eyes from warily wondering along the shadowy alcoves and side passages to find unseen threats. Fergus held his sister's hand tightly in the crook of his arm and as they spoke he inclined his head down towards her to better hear and protect her words, though his gaze remained fixated to the shadows.

"They do, sister. Why, have your mages not fed you today?"

The Warden smiled and shook her head, "no, they've fed me. I'm just still hungry. You try not eating for three weeks…"

"The best I managed was one and a half…"

It was, of course, just the lady's body adjusting to the taint. As becoming a Grey Warden was more than just a lifestyle choice, but a complete and utter lifestyle change, there were things that the Warden was still learning about herself and her body's reactions. Having been a Grey Warden for such a short period of time, side effects of the Joining were still manifesting.

Alistair had mentioned at one point that he had felt an increase in his appetite, and had then gone on to comment about her own seemingly insatiable lust for food at camp. _"It's a good thing you get a lot of exercise!" _he had said to her after dinner one evening, remarking on the fact that she had devoured Leliana's wild game and hare stew with more relish than usual. _"Do you have hollow legs, dear lady? Because I think you've eaten everything in the pot and left nothing for the rest of us poor hungry souls. Leliana! Leliana! She's glaring at me! I think she wants to eat me next!" _Our Grey Warden had laughed off his comments then, saying her behavior was more like due to "_Leliana's superb culinary skills and use of local spices_" than the Joining. While she had not seriously considered the possibilities at the time, she was beginning to reevaluate Alistair's words. In what other ways would the taint manifest?

Her mind wandered at all the possibilities, though the searing pain in her heart at one avenue of thought brought back other memories of Alistair. They were unpleasant at best, filled with childish bitterness and brinkmanship born of broken and battered hearts. Oh yes, there was one way in which the taint was made manifest in her body. Like the trees of autumn whose leaves whither and die at winter's first winds, her womb would bear no fruit.

To conceive as a single Grey Warden was unlikely; as two nearly impossible. And as a woman? She did not have the luxury of releasing tainted seed and letting someone else handle the responsibility of healing and shaping it. Oh no, she had to nurture the child in her belly and let it sleep below her heart in the taint filled cage of her womb. It would be unlikely that a female Grey Warden's body could both battle the taint and sustain a child. Thus the possibility of successful conception and birth was even slimmer for her than for Alistair. She would likely never have a child, even with a man who wasn't a Grey Warden. Alistair, on the other hand, could likely beget a child on an untainted woman.

And to think! She would have let him… would have allowed him to…

_No. _

She nearly allowed these thoughts to give her pause. _Nearly. _She had grown stronger, and wiser, and was far too old now to allow the affairs of young princes and toy soldiers to bring her worry and toil. She had far too many responsibilities to let her mind become occupied with the sorrows and wants of yestereve and beyond. So she picked up her slowing pace and stepped quickly in time with her brother's own longer strides.

"At yesterday's meeting they had several roasted turkeys," continued Fergus, oblivious to any changes in his sister. "And at the one before they had platters of veal…"

"Something to look forward to!" the Warden smacked her lips with gusto, mind now completely preoccupied again with the hunger in her belly, "I can't wait. Let the Maker take any Bann who stands between me and that veal…"

"I'm already praying for them, sister." Fergus chuckled and patted her hand fondly. "You remind me of Oriana when she was with child. She had the strangest cravings at all hours of the night. Pickled veal being the least strange."

While the Warden's heart ached at the thought of her own lost prospects, and of Oriana and Oren's deaths, the idea of pickled veal was delightfully appetizing. Her mouth watered at the idea of succulent veal pieces dipped in brine with spices and…_oooooh. _"Oh, that does sound really good right about now. Do you think they'd do that for me if I asked them? That they'd bring me pickled veal?"

"I…don't see why not," replied Fergus with a wary tone, "you are the savior of the city after all. It is probably a royal decree by now to cater to your every whim. Ah, nothing much has changed! But in all seriousness is…" Fergus tried to think of a tactful way to gauge his sister's 'health,' "is there something you want to tell me?"

"No." The Warden turned her gaze from the back of the elf's head to her brother's face, "Why, is there something you want to tell me?"

"No…I was just wondering if you were pr - "

"Announcing the arrivals of Teyrn Cousland and the Hero of Ferelden!"

Apparently, the massive wooden door denoting the entrance to the throne room had taken Fergus and his sister by surprise, because as the door swung open the Bannorn were greeted by the shocked and startled expressions on the faces of the siblings.

"It is customary to bow." whispered Fergus through a newly fixated smile. He bent forward, in a graceful bow and was unable to see if his sister had followed suit and done the same. It had been many years since she'd last been to a Landsmeet in a proper fashion, so he was unsure if she remembered the etiquette that was expected. He'd heard that things had gone very poorly at the previous Landsmeet. Poorly for the opposition, that is. Most of the nobles were pleased by the outcome of things. Still, at least she was not fully armed or armored, though Fergus knew that in the grand scheme of things that meant very little. His little sister was apparently a very dangerous person.

She was also a very popular person, it seemed, for she side stepped passed him into the room and was greeted loudly. So loudly, in fact, that Fergus felt the need to cover his ears with his hands, which his sister did in fact do. Her long fingers covered her ears and she bowed her head at the tidal wave of sound. She was laughing though; he could hear it clearly despite the shouting.

"Enough! Enough!' she cried, a smile wide on her face. "I am not strong enough to endure the noise!" But the cheering and the clapping continued, and she was powerless to do all else but let the excitement and the sound wash over her like stones do to the rivers that disturb their rest. She bowed, nodded her head at the nobles she had assisted prior to her last Landsmeet, and carefully inched her way down the stairs to the chamber proper. Each step she took forward eased the noise as the Banns, Arls and the lone Teyrna became bored at her novelty and returned to what they were doing before she had entered.

She had just descended the last step when swift movement from her left caught her eye. Her body tensed for action, but it was just Bann Teagan approaching with his brother Arl Eamon. It seemed that the ardor and zeal of the first was lost on the second, who trailed a little more cautiously behind.

"My lady!" Teagan did not wait for her extended hand, and instead grasped her shoulders and pulled her forward into a hug. She was drawn to his chest and could do nothing more than rest her chin on his shoulder as her arms dangled helplessly by her sides.

The Warden could smell the polish and tannin from his leathers, as well as the subtle fragrance he wore in his hair. It was spicy, and reminded her of a fragrant oil her father had received as a gift from an Orlesian nobleman. The only time he would wear it was during their midwinter celebrations, and it evoked within her memories of warm fires and fat snowflakes. Her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply, smiling.

Teagan pulled back and the Grey warden saw her smile reflected on his face. Hesitant to let go, his fingers flexed against her shoulders. His scent lingered in her nose, and no doubt her scent was lingering in his by the way he was seemingly at a loss for words and how his eyes regarded her face, darting between eyes and lips, eyes and lips… (And no doubt she looked likewise at him, and wondered also if _it _was appropriate.)

"Teagan! Well met again." Fergus, with a rather ill-timed rescue, drew the attention of the younger Guerrein who released his sister with a polite cough. "And you, Eamon! You look better and better each day." He laid a hand on his sister's back, and she straightened in response.

It was true. The Arl of Redcliffe was recovering quite well from the poison. His beard was trimmed neatly to the current court fashion, and his eyes had lost their sunken, harrowed look. While the wrinkles still made him look older than his years, Eamon no longer looked like he was Teagan's father. He was now brother in both looks and blood.

"As Ferelden heals, so shall I," Eamon offered his hand in friendship to the young Teyrn, who took it obligingly. "Though I think I am not the one here who has made the miraculous recovery." The Arl's eyes flicked to the Grey Warden, who looked as fresh faced and youthful as an Orlesian painting of Andraste.

The Grey Warden met his eyes and raised a teasing eyebrow. "Are you talking about me?" She blinked innocently, "I hope not; Andraste put me through many trials for a pinch of her blood and body. She is the miracle worker; not I."

"Pardon me for being blunt," interjected Teagan in a quiet manner, "but you're supposed to be dead, my lady."

The notion that everyone knew that she was supposed to be dead unsettled the Grey Warden. This was a Grey Warden secret: he who takes the killing blow has his soul destroyed along with the Archdemon's. Had someone overheard Riordan…? "You know, I heard that from my healers when I awoke today. How does everyone _know _that I was supposed to be dead?" Though she was attempting to fake her laughter, she was actually finding it to be genuine. "Should I be insulted? Do Archdemons get slain more often than is recorded, so that everyone has knowledge of how to do it and what happens afterwards?"

"History has seen every Grey Warden to strike a killing blow against the Archdemon die. There are great tombs at Weisshaupt commemorating their sacrifice." Eamon shrugged. "I suppose they could have just been unlucky, though it is said that Garahel's lifeless body was brought to Weisshaupt free of injuries. It was only his spirit that had departed."

"That is just history though," argued the Grey Warden carefully, choosing her words with the utmost caution, "killing an Archdemon is beyond dangerous. Once they've been slain, they release ancient, magical energy. It would not surprise me that if the Grey Warden does not perish from his injuries, that the magic does it for him. After all, the Tevinter Imperium was taught all manners of old, dark rituals from these Archdemons."

Eamon's face was thoughtful as he considered her words, "that is not a theory that I have heard before, though it does make perfect sense given the circumstances. Still, I suppose no theory can last long forever. You are living proof of that." He smiled at her, "and I am thankful for it."

"As am I. When that moment came… " Teagan shook his head, as if to banish away dark thoughts. "I was there at the steps of Fort Drakon when the templars brought you down. You looked so small in your armor…and do forgive me for saying that because I know in full health you are not."

The Grey Warden ducked her head, embarrassed. "You're forgiven, Teagan! I don't mind being called small. It is a nice change."

"Small? Pfft," Fergus moved his hand to her shoulder, "not my little sister."

"You are only too lucky that I did not grow another few inches to be taller than you, Fergus," the Grey Warden's stepped on his foot playfully, "otherwise mother would have made you wear the dress."

"I told the same thing to Eamon," Teagan grinned, "alas, he grew when I was expected to. Older brothers are merciless and cruel."

Eamon and Fergus both chuckled, and dually commented on the pains of having younger siblings.

"So needy!"

"Always demanding mother and father's attention!"

"Continually brought new toys and amusements!"

"Then boring of them and wanting new ones!"

"First to sample the evening meal from the cook!"

The Grey Warden's stomach grumbled at the mention of food, which sent Teagan's eyes straight to her belly and his eyebrows straight to his hairline. (And a blush straight to her cheeks.)

With a vivacious and utterly charming smile, the Grey Warden clasped her hands in front of her and turned to her brother. "Pickled veal?"

Eamon and Teagan visibly recoiled at the mention.

"Isolde ate so much of the stuff when she was with child that I can't bear the smell of it anymore." Eamon shuddered. "And the stuff tastes as bad as it smells."

Fergus blinked in surprise. "Funny you should mention that, Eamon, because my wife also had the same cravings."

"I hear it is an Orlesian thing." Eamon sighed, "Apparently in Orlais, one of the ways a wife is measured is by how good her pickled veal is. Isolde won't make her own, however, and insists on importing it. Apparently, Fereldan veal is inferior and would reflect badly on her as a wife."

"You are all bad, bad men." The Grey Warden put a hand to her stomach, which agreed with her as she spoke.

"Well, somebody's hungry!" Teagan offered her his arm and gazed at her with laughing eyes, "they haven't yet put out the meal, but there is wine to tide you over."

"Oh no, Teagan, don't give this one any wine," Fergus looked meaningfully at his sibling, "unless you want a new rug for the hall!"

Pursing her lips, the Grey Warden turned to her brother and poked her finger into his chest. "Fergus, I am NOT twelve anymore."

"You're not even _double _that," taunted the Teyrn, attempting to dodge a second jab. "You will always be that little girl who got into the wine vat at Lady So and So's salon…"

The Grey Warden pinched the bridge of her nose. "Maker help me, I should have just perished and saved myself the humiliating return down memory lane." Teagan's hand at her lower back drew her attention to the Bann, who had come to stand close beside her.

"I would be interested in hearing the rest of the story later," he said to Fergus, with the faintest hint of mischief glittering in the depths of his eyes, "and anymore that you might want to share with me. In the mean time, I think it would be a prudent course of action to get something into your sister's stomach." He turned to the Grey Warden, the smile in his eyes now spread kindly over his face, "you've been slowly paling over the course of the conversation."

"Out of mortification and horror," she explained to him, "everything Fergus tells you needs to be taken with an oceanful of salt."

"I am sure there is nothing he could say that would change my opinion of you in the slightest," assured the Bann, "or Eamon's opinion, either."

Eamon tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"Though I _am_ going to get those stories from him," the Bann grinned, slowly leading her away from Fergus and his older brother.

Eamon caught the Grey Warden's arm as she passed. "I'm going to do her a favor and share with her some of your more glorious moments, Teagan. That is only fair."

"I look forward to it," said the Warden with a wide smile.

Teagan chuckled as Eamon released the Warden, and turning to his brother said, "It's a shame they're all quite boring! I fear I am still getting the better deal."

"Ah, brother, would that you could bluff, would that you could bluff." Eamon sighed. "Anyway, enough of this, the Lady is probably tired of this bantering and there are things that the Teyrn and I need to discuss."

Fergus appeared apprehensive at the notion of being left alone with Arl Eamon to discuss matters that were of no doubt great importance. However, the Warden watched him square his shoulders and incline his politely at the Arl. Yes, Fergus would make a good Teyrn so long as he remembered that he had a backbone, and that he had survived death, and the slaughter of his wife and only child. These survivals made him stronger. Made him better. But did he know that? And would he recognize it in time for it to matter?

The Grey Warden pushed the thoughts out of her head, for Bann Teagan was smiling at her and talking to her of the lovely weather Denerim had been having. Though she didn't care about the weather, she did care about the smile and she wanted to keep it fixated on her. So she smiled back, and talked about the lovely weather in Denerim with him.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Teagan's good humor and charm sustained the conversation for the better part of an hour. Tables were slowly brought into the chamber and arranged to form a square, and likewise their conversation followed a similar course. From the fair weather to the most recent political gossip, the Bann updated the Grey Warden on all she had missed while she slept, until finally they returned once more to the subject of the weather.

"There's been the distinctive smell of rain in the air lately," Teagan brought his goblet of wine to his lips and took a thoughtful sip, the sweet wine lingering on his tongue, "which could mean good things for what little lands the farmers have left."

"When we rallied at Redcliffe, things didn't seem so bad." The Grey Warden watched Teagan from below her long eye lashes. The corners of her mouth were upturned into a small half-smile. It was the same expression she had worn during the last few weeks of her life, and wearing it felt like slipping into a worn pair of boots. It was nice to smile again, to banter, and to have fun. She had almost forgotten the feeling. "Though I know agriculture isn't exactly your staple when compared to the bannorn."

"We have enough to feed ourselves, it is true." He sighed, his shoulders sagging in the process, "Though we are going to be called upon to feed much more. The lands around Highever have been relatively preserved from the Blight, which I believe is what Eamon is discussing with your brother right now."

The Warden's eyes darted around the room, searching for Fergus and Eamon amongst the meandering lords and ladies. "Is Eamon trying to get some sort of concession from Fergus?" she asked cautiously.

Teagan chuckled, and placed a reassuring hand on her arm, "no, my dear lady. Eamon is trying to prepare him for the inevitable." He let his thumb caress against the airy fabric of her shirt, feeling heat of her skin lurking below. "Were my brother any other man, he might be trying to cut some sort of deal so that Redcliffe prospers. But Eamon wants what is best for all of us, and he wants things done fairly. For that I am thankful, since he is an excellent example of a leader and a brother."

"What do you expect is going to happen to all the Banns who have workable land and sufficient crop growth?" Her eyes settled on two individuals that she assumed were the Teyrn and the Arl, though both were indistinguishable in the far shadows of the room. "Will they be forced to give up their crops by royal decree, or will contracts be made?"

The Bann canted his head in consideration as he explained what had occurred during times of disasters, such as floods or droughts. "In the past, contracts have been made. The lucky Banns will be in a position to negotiate profitable trade agreements with their neighbors, so it will mostly depend on the individuals involved as to what the terms are. Eamon is likely to share Redcliffe's surplus crops and allow recompense at a later date." Teagan's thumb continued its slow, rhythmic pattern against the lady's arm, "Bann Mayfaire, on the other hand, will probably hoard his crops until his neighbors are starving, and then charge outrageous prices." He frowned, and shook his head. "Mayfaire's going to cause trouble when we need it the least."

"The Blight just ended and the spirit of camaraderie is already gone?" The Warden sighed and echoed his head shake. "That is truly quite sad. I would have at least expected it to last more than a month. That's the least they could do."

"For everyone else, my lady, perhaps that will be the case. But not here."

"Do you think I should go hit them over the heads with my shield?"

Teagan blinked at the suggestion, and after a moment of thought greeted it with warm laughter. His scowl disappeared and the hand on her arm traveled southward and grasped her hand. He traced the back of it with a finger tip and felt the contrast between her smooth skin and the spider webs of scars and calluses. It saddened him to know that the Warden had come to understand the ways of war while so young, but he did not pity her for her trials. Instead, he thanked her. He thanked her with his every word and touch. "I would happily give you names."

The Warden wiggled her fingers in his grip, a devious smile spreading across her face. "Done. Give me the names, and I shall go get my shield, and we'll see if we can't make camaraderie sing throughout these halls once more." She turned as if to move away, but Teagan squeezed her hand gently.

"Sadly, I think we may just be sharing in some wishful thinking. I'm not sure if your shield would have any affect against their thick heads. It took them long enough to see Loghain for what he was," Teagan's gaze darkened despite his best attempts to preserve the levity of the conversation. "You would probably dent your crest before you got through."

"I can hit _very _hard." She winked. "And I need the practice to strengthen my shield arm again… But you're right. I would hate to dent my shield and then be forced to endure the lengthy amount of time it took to repair it. It would eventually find its way into the hands of Master Wade, no doubt, and I would be completely without my father's defense for years!"

Teagan deposited his wine goblet onto a tray provided by a passing elf. "Master Wade? The blacksmith here in Denerim?"

Nodding, the Grey Warden did likewise with her own goblet. "Yes. Do you know him?"

The Bann shook his head. "Only by reputation. I hear he is excellent at what he does. I had considered seeing him for new armor since I think I have outgrown my current suit, thanks to my compulsive worry-eating during Eamon's sickness." His half-hearted laughter ended in a sigh, "but now with our people starving it seems like a frivolous expense."

The Warden nodded sympathetically. "Well, he's as good as they say and worth the money too. He can mold any material to fit you like the softest of gloves but," the lady smiled ruefully and winced in painful recollection, "he takes a long time. Even longer if you prod him. I found that out the hard way."

"You can never rush perfection, they say."

"No, I suppose not, but I'm not asking for perfection in the middle of a war. I just want the dents in my armor hammered out. What should I have done? Tell the Darkspawn to wait for me?" she grinned at the thought. "March up to the nearest Emissary and tell him that I needed another week or so to prepare? Could the Archdemon just rest for a few hours while I had my legs measured?"

Teagan's eyes dropped to her legs at their mention, "They…are rather long."

"Oh you think so, do you?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge, her gaze like a rattling sword.

His eyes darted back up to her face and he paled, blushing at his lapse of propriety. The hand he had been holding he released with an awkward sigh. "I am sure Master Wade was just being careful with his measurements so that you wouldn't have any complications. Riding on horseback in ill fitting armor is painful enough as it is, but to have to walk in it?" He grimaced, "I don't know how you did it without a horse."

"I don't know either. On some days I wanted to make Oghren, Sten, or Alistair carry me because the chafing was nearly unbearable, but things got significantly better with your brother's help. Though," she smiled, "I don't think I'll make the same mistake twice. If I leave Denerim, it will either be on horseback or a sedan chair." She gave a decisive nod of her head. "Yes, a sedan chair would do nicely."

"I can't quite imagine you riding off to fight Darkspawn in a sedan chair," Teagan looked sidelong at her, tilting his chin up as he did so. He parted his lips as if to continue the statement further, perhaps to say something charming and witty and have her respond in kind, but the sudden look on her face stilled him. Her eyes had widened and her mouth had been set into a firm line. She looked…shocked. Quite appalled, even.

Had she seen someone? Someone she didn't like?

The Bann frowned and stood closer to her, his hands coming up to cradle her shoulders against his chest. At such close proximity, he could smell the soap that her hair had been washed with, the same alluring mixture of warming spices and flowers he'd caught from her during their earlier embrace. Heady, very heady… "What is it, my lady?"

"Thomas."

"Thomas…" he persisted, trying to think of all the families that had members named as such.

"Howe," she spat, taking Teagan completely by surprise. "Thomas Howe. Here, in the Landsmeet chamber." Her mind was already formulating and calculating each possible reason for his appearance, and the outcomes of each confrontation. All of them ended badly for Howe, with the exception of two in which things went poorly for her and Fergus. Though the likelihood of her losing a duel to the rather gangly and uncoordinated Howe was unlikely, Fergus's prospects were somewhat slimmer since he wasn't a thinker. He would bellow, and then charge. Howe was crafty. Everyone in that family was.

"That's impossible," Teagan tried to find the eldest Howe child amongst the nobles, but wasn't having any luck. "The guards would never have let him in, he has no claims to blood or titles to land."

"Since when?" the Grey Warden turned to look at him sharply, brows knit in confusion.

"I'll explain later." Teagan squeezed her shoulders in reassurance, "now where is Thomas?"

"He's there." The Grey Warden pointed to a tall, skinny man with a long face and mousy hair dressed in the regalia of the elven servants. "He thinks he's disguised, that no one's noticed him." Her smile was grim. "But he is sorely mistaken."

"We should alert the Captain of the Guard, or at the very least the king."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, turning her face towards Teagan but not removing her eyes from Howe. "You aren't in the least curious as to why he's here? What he may be doing?"

"My lady," Teagan said quietly, "he could be poisoning the wine for all we know. His presence here makes no sense at all."

"Maybe he's trying to find me." The Grey Warden chuckled below her breath, "actually, I am most certainly the reason he's here. I did kill his father, after all."

"He did have it coming. Though…" Teagan observed the disguised Howe, "There are other reasons he could be here."

"Such as?"

"King Alistair gave Amaranthine to the Grey Wardens."

The Grey Warden gasped, "Maker's breath……he gave all that land to the Wardens? Truly?" The lady lost her vigilant stare on Howe because of the surprise, and found herself gazing at Teagan incredulously. "There were no conditions? Amaranthine is the Grey Warden's, no stipulations?"

Teagan shook his head, amused by her seeming lack of trust in the Grey Warden's fortune. "None. He just hoped that it would be a fitting enough tribute to your sacrifice."

"So…we have a real home. In Ferelden, we have a true home." The Grey Warden brought her hands to her face to smother her delight, but Teagan was quick to catch them in his own and pull them back down to her sides.

"You should never hide that smile of yours, my lady," he said, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. "Maker knows that you deserve some happiness."

Color flushed to the Warden's cheeks, making rosy the soft cream of her skin. "I don't know what you mean," she turned her head away from him, and tilted her gaze to the floor, "I am happy."

"Are you really?" Teagan's tone was gentle and he tried awkwardly to grasp her chin and bring her face back towards him. But he failed in the endeavor, managing only to touch a fair cheek with his fingertips before he pulled his hand back as if he'd been burnt. "You have an odd way of showing it."

"I am just overwhelmed," is what she managed to say in response, pulling her hands from his. Her forehead creased in thought, "Thomas being here does put a damper on my overall happiness though. I have to know what he's up to."

"I urge you not to confront him directly. This is not the time or the place for bloodshed," Teagan advised. "I am sure that you are more than capable of handling yourself if the situation gets ugly, but it is better if it doesn't."

The Grey Warden chuckled absently, her gaze and mind elsewhere. "Do you think it will end in bloodshed? That he'll invoke his rights?" She squared her shoulders. "I rather hope that he does. I should find Fergus though, and let him know. Will you keep an eye on him, watch his movements?"

"I will do my best. Be warned though, you don't want the reputation of being a troublemaker at the Landsmeet. It would not reflect favorably on your family…or you."

"Thank you for the warning." She turned and placed her hand on his cheek, "And for everything. I enjoy talking with you, Teagan. You are a wonderful person."

"I…" it was his turn to blush, "I…thank you."

With a coy wink and a subtle twist of her hips she walked from him, reminding him over her shoulder to keep his eyes on Thomas as her own set out in search of her brother.

For the Warden, the presence of Thomas Howe was uncomfortable at best and rage inspiring at worst. His father had murdered her family and she had sworn vengeance against him. While his death had brought some solace, she did not know how she felt about having his family still at large. Thomas had always been ambitious and childishly cruel, his sister as quiet as a chantry mouse, and she did not know his mother well enough to see where these traits were inherited from.

Hopefully he wasn't there for blood. She didn't want to make another scene in the same place, but then the decision to do so was out of her hands. Fergus was Teyrn and the reigning patriarch of the Couslands. It was his word that would decide Howe's fate, provided he had the approval of the king. If Fergus asked her to intervene or participate, then she would accept. Yet she was determined not to let her own feelings influence his judgment, though she guessed that both she and her sibling were of the same mind.

Around her the hall was set for the Landsmeet. The décor had not changed from the last time she'd entered the hall, and it still retained the same standards and colors as before. The addition of the tables made the place look smaller, though that was only because each one was a massive structure of wood that had been polished and trimmed in the colors of the king. The bright cloth runners cut a vivid contrast against the dark wood, and against the family heralds that had been draped over the front of each. Chairs were lined along only the outside edge of the tables, so that everyone was seeing faces rather than the backs of heads.

The Grey Warden was not surprised to find Highever's white wings nestled between the tower on the red cliff and the grey storm cloud. Redcliffe, Highever, and Rainesfere had become sort of unbreakable alliance while she lay sleeping. Four chairs were positioned behind the crests, one she assumed for her and the others for Fergus, Eamon and Teagan. It wouldn't be such a bad afternoon, she mused, to be nestled between Teagan and Fergus. Both of them possessed pleasantly curious vocal vibrations. All she had to do was place her hand against them, and she would tingle all the way up her arm.

She cast her eyes over the crowds of nobles, looking for Fergus amongst their numbers. Anora was easy to spot on the second level, because her golden hair was like a snow capped mountain reflecting the sun's light. Despite standing quietly apart of one large group, she did not appear uneasy. Knowing Anora, she was probably gathering information. The former queen caught her gaze briefly and gave a polite nod of her head before returning her eyes back to something in her hands.

The Warden started as she felt a hand on her arm.

"Eamon is likely to talk my ear off!" Fergus's laugh was weak, no doubt due to the serious nature of the discussion. "I suppose I am learning from him, though."

"I am glad you are getting along with Eamon, Fergus," she drew him close and brought her mouth to his ear, "but Thomas Howe is here." She felt Fergus go rigid at the news.

He slowly pulled away, his hand shaking against her, "He…he is here? How?"

"He's disguised as a servant. Teagan is playing hunter and watching him." The Warden found Teagan standing where she'd left him, leaning with his shoulder against a wooden post, his arms crossed over his chest. She could see the trail of his eyes and knew that he still had their quarry in his sight.

"What do you think he's - "

"The Landsmeet is called to order! Welcome your King!"

Fergus balled his hands into fists and shut his eyes tight. "Maker's breath, why does the King have to come now?"

"We have to go to our places, Fergus. But he's here for a reason," the Grey Warden gently grasped his wrist, tugging him towards their table. "And he'll show it. We'll be ready."

"What if he's tampered with the wine? Or the food?" Fergus's hand touched his stomach, "we could all be dying because of his treachery."

The Grey Warden clucked her tongue in reproach. "It is too late to be worrying about the wine now, Fergus, but we can skip the food just in case. As much as it pains me to say that."

Fergus said nothing, biting the inside of his cheek as his sister brought him to their table and guided him gently to his chair. The hand she placed at his lower back made small, soothing circles to try and quiet his barely checked rage. He relaxed a little at her steadfast presence beside him, and her quiet warning not to 'give the game up too soon,' helped clear his mind.

Eamon gave them both a curious look, having overheard the Grey Warden's warning. He tried to catch Teagan's eye as his brother arrived to take his place, but Teagan seemed otherwise preoccupied. Both Couslands and his brother were staring intently at the servants scurrying about as they ushered late and addled nobles to their family crests. He was not able to intuit anything from them other than that something was about to happen, and Eamon was not comfortable about being left in the dark.

When it appeared that all the families had been settled and arranged properly, the King entered. Crowned only a few days after the Archdemon's defeat, he wore the golden diadem of his station high on his handsome brow. Despite his previous protestations and uncertainty, Alistair looked more like a king than he gave himself credit for in his golden armor and luxuriously thick fur cloak. More impressive to his character, he didn't seem bored, scared or anxious about what was before him. His steps were resolute and his features were stern. Alistair was confident and eager, the hunger for change glittering in his eyes.

The Grey Warden couldn't help but feel a pang of remorse entwined with pride: she'd helped make this man. She had watch him grow along their travels, and seen him mature from a boy to a man. And though at the time it had been with much sorrow and bitter regret, she had been the Kingmaker. His Kingmaker, for good or ill. She was happy that she wasn't being made to regret the choice.

After all, Amaranthine was quite the gift.

Alistair took his place on the throne, tossing his blood red cape to one side, and settled himself. The rest of the nobles followed suit, glad to be seated. Fergus jostled his sister with his elbow as he sat, reminding her of dinner times in Highever long since past.

"All right, all right, let's bring this to order." Alistair leaned forward on the throne as he regarded the nobles before him, his fingers drumming against the decorative dog's head on the arm rest. "Let's first discuss - "

"A grave injustice!"

The Couslands tensed, ready to spring to action at the sound of Thomas Howe's voice. Both had expected him to act, but certainly not so soon. Fergus's breathing came in sharp and low between his clenched teeth, while the Grey Warden's legs tensed as she readied herself to spring into action.

Alistair frowned, "And who're you supposed to be?"

Thomas was walking forward from his place against a pillar, slipping his long, spindly legs between the arranged tables like an overgrown spider. He came to stand at the center of the Landsmeet, and spread his hands out wide as he addressed the group and the king. "My name is Thomas Howe! I am the son of a murdered father and widowed mother! I have been robbed of my home, and my family's earned wealth! I demand that this matter be discussed and the punishment reconsidered!" He let each statement echo in the hall before he began the next, his face a mixture of impassioned outrage and pain.

The Grey Warden felt Teagan's hand reach out and squeeze her thigh, urging her to remain seated and in place. The firmness of the fingers suggested that she allow the Landsmeet to sort out this business, and to let the Teyrn decide what the emotional tone was to be. She was, after all, just a guest, and he wanted to remind her of his earlier warning. If she interfered without due cause, she could cause problems for Fergus.

"Thomas Howe, Thomas Howe," Alistair frowned, regarding the thin man with half-lidded eyes, "now where have I heard that name before. Say," his fingers rapped against the wood of the throne, "aren't you the son of the late Rendon _Howe_?" He straightened up, his tone thoughtful. "Funny thing about that particular Howe, because I heard he murdered, or at least attempted to murder, the entire Cousland family. I think he may have failed though. Wouldn't you say, Teyrn?"

Fergus slowly stood, his chair groaning ominously against the floor. "I do say." His hand came to rest atop his sister's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, "wouldn't you, sister?"

The Grey Warden took this as her queue to stand as well, and she felt Teagan's hand reluctantly slip away from her leg. She rose to her not inconsiderable height, her fairness contrasting sharply against her brother's swarthier appearance. "I do, Fergus."

Thomas had the late Arl's infamous nose and even better known ingratiating smile, and he used both to great effect. He turned towards them, his nose leading the way like a Mabari on the hunt, and upon seeing them he smiled in that false and toothy way that sent shivers down the spines of both Couslands. "Fergus…_Aurora. _What a pleasure it is to see you both alive, even if you are profiting from my family's misfortune."

Narrowing his eyes, Fergus leaned over the table, trying to get as physically close to Thomas Howe as he possibly could. "Misfortune? You think you can speak to me of misfortune? Tell me, Thomas, when the king confiscated your lands and reassigned them to the Grey Wardens, did he slaughter everyone in Castle Amaranthine? Did his solders murder your mother and your sister Delilah? Because I think what you are suffering, Thomas, is _justice_."

"You have no proof that my father had anything at all to do with the murder of the Cousland family," Thomas raised a finger in accusation. "You were both away from the castle."

"I was not away from the castle, Thomas." The Grey Warden crossed her arms over her chest. "That I was a target and survived the massacre is not proof enough of your father's intentions? Is it also not enough that when your father met his end he confessed to the deaths of the Teyrn and Teyrna and their kin and servants?" Her eyes glittered dangerously. "Considering that it was King Cailan's request that we march to Amaranthine as soon as the battle of Ostagar was finished and hang you, your father, your mother and your sister, I would be thankful that all King Alistair chose to do was take your wealth and title. You are suffering from both justice and _mercy_, it seems. How very fortunate for you."

The Howe patriarch sneered. "That land belonged to the Howes long before it belonged to the Couslands. Your founder was nothing but a guardsman in our pay. There was every right for us to take that land back sooner or later. After all, your father was an Orlesian conspirator and a traitor. At the time, it was justified and warranted." Howe turned his attention back to the other nobles, his arms sweeping out wide to address them once more. "This punishment is unfair as it comes too late and without context. Tell me, do you punish your dog for eating off your plate _days_ after he has done it?"

Fergus nearly jumped over the table in his rage, and was barely held back by his quicker sister, who had wrapped her arms around his midsection. He shouted at Thomas, his body shaking angrily, "And what proof do you have that my father was an Orlesian conspirator and a traitor to Ferelden, when it was your father who so often spoke ill of the king?"

"You can't punish people for their opinions!" Thomas yelled back, finger stretched forth in accusation, "if you could do that, there would be no one left in the kingdom!"

Fergus struggled to free himself from his sister's grasp, halting his protests only when he felt Eamon stand and put his hands on his shoulders. "It isn't just an opinion when you act on it!"

Alistair cleared his throat loudly. "Right, be that as it may," he shifted on the throne, staring at Thomas with an impassive expression. "I'm not changing my decision. I was there when Rendon Howe died, so I heard his confession. You can't argue with that."

Thomas shrugged. "I thought it might come to this, seeing as you are clearly so deep within the Cousland's pockets." He turned to face the two Couslands directly. "I challenge you."

A titter of excitement broke out amongst the nobles and servants. Everyone knew what it meant, they understood the ancient tradition. Ferelden had many types of duels, and the on offered just now was perhaps one of the most bitter. It could only be invoked by the survivors of a familial genocide, and because of the circumstances, the terms were simple: any weapon, any terms, and more importantly, the winner of the duel could take whatever they desired from the loser: money, wealth, power, wife, husband, child…it didn't matter. They could take everything, if they so inclined.

More importantly to those at the Landsmeet that day, they all knew that the challenger almost never lost.

Exhaling loudly, Fergus nodded. "I accept your challenge."

* * *

_Sorry for the delay, there's been quite a bit going on. Continual love and thanks goes to Lady Winde for her insight and grammararing skills, and to the readers who are sticking with the story. _


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

There then was the gauntlet laid down before the entire Landsmeet, shaking the sense of victory that had permeated the hall for the past three weeks. Thomas Howe had challenged Fergus Cousland the Teyrn of Highever to a duel without cost, a single combat match where the winner took anything and everything from the loser. Unfortunately for the Couslands, history was on the side of the Howes.

The murmuring in the room fell silent as Thomas and Fergus stared at each other, separated by only a few slabs of wood. Everyone knew this was going to be something to behold. It had been many years since such a duel had been fought. Everyone had been so busy either fighting or canoodling with Orlais previously that they hadn't had time to focus on their own petty disputes with another (outside of killing each other to make Orlais happy), and they'd had no time to exact revenge after their liberation as Maric had seen to punishing the traitors himself. No one had wanted to break the veneer of peace ever since, as no one wanted this so called violent "Dragon" age to be true.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Fergus?" Eamon asked the younger man, bringing his lips close to his ear. "There are other options, other ways to handle this."

Thomas saw the older Guerrein's mouth whisper words into his opponent's ear and smirked. "What's wrong, Teyrn Cousland," he jeered, "can you not make decisions on your own? Are you a child that needs approval from your betters?"

"I will do this, Eamon," said Fergus darkly, fire blazing in his narrowed eyes, "if not for mother and father, then for Oren and Oriana."

"Then what are the terms of combat going to be?" Eamon raised his voice, addressing the two opponents with irritation, "are you going to roll around here in this chamber for all of our enjoyment, biting and clawing like two wild dogs? We're trying to help rebuild the kingdom. Do this another time."

"While normally I'd agree," Alistair said from his place on the throne, "I get the feeling that the Teyrn won't be able to concentrate until this matter has been seen to. Besides," Alistair's eyes wandered over to the tall woman who stood beside the eldest Cousland, giving her a look of curious irony, "it's not as if we haven't seen duels here in the Landsmeet before. It seems like these sorts of things just turn into _great_ big dueling parties, so let's just get this one over with shall we?"

Teagan coughed softly in the back of his throat, and earned a hard stare from the Warden.

"Thank you, your majesty." Thomas sketched a bow in Alistair's direction, but the king just made an absent motion with his hand and rested his chin on his palm. "It is also _my _challenge," Thomas turned to Eamon, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly, "therefore I get to set the stipulations for the combat, though seeing Fergus Cousland beg like a dog intrigues me."

"Maker's breath," Eamon shook his head and sat down, "why no one can think of anything but themselves these days, I'll never know."

"Go ahead then, you sniveling snake," Fergus growled, "set your terms and name your champion."

"Single combat, any weapon of choice, combat finishes when you are on your knees pleading for your life and admitting your wife was an Antivan _whore_."

The Warden's arms came up again to catch Fergus, who had already managed to get one leg over the table in his haste to charge the remaining Howe. She clapped one hand over his mouth to stop him from yelling anything that could be used against him in the duel. Fergus's teeth scratched against her skin, and his lips worked against her fingers as he yelled out something angry and incoherent.

"Fergus! Fergus!" she used her body weight to drag him away, whispering in his ear, "Fergus, you have to accept the terms and name your champion! But…don't do it right now, talk with me first. Please, talk with me first." She slowly drew her hand away from his mouth, her muscles ready to cover it once more if the need arose.

Fergus shook with the effort of restraining his range, and turned to his sister's icy countenance. "What is there to discuss?" he asked quietly, bending his head to hers.

"Let me fight Howe," said the Warden quietly, so no one would be able to overhear them.

"No, Thomas is mine to kill," he clenched his fists, "you killed his father, but I need some closure too, sister!"

"Not like this," the Warden took her brother's hands in her own and squeezed them gently. She looked at him, her eyes shining. "You are Teyrn now, and you represent our family. We do not want to be seen as political troublemakers, especially not since father worked so hard to prove our integrity and reputation to everyone in this hall. For the sake of our family's honor and respect, you can't be tarnished by this." She pleaded.

"You would just have us ignore this duel? What good is that?"

The Warden frowned. "No, that's what I'm saying. _You_ can't fight Howe. But _I_ can. I'm not a Cousland; I had to give up that privilege when Duncan took me. I'm a Grey Warden now. I can fight him, I can desecrate the Landsmeet again, and you will lose no face."

"I don't care about losing face; I care about what I've already lost." He closed his eyes and shook his head, "My poor Oren, and my Oriana. Mother, father…"

"You should think about what you're about to lose, if you do this," replied the Warden wearily. "Father worked so hard for the Cousland name, it would be a shame to lose that, since that's all we have left of him."

"I…I have to do this. I need to do this, for both my sake and that of our family's." Fergus pulled away from her, but his sister had an unrelenting grip on his hands and pulled him back.

"No, you have to be Teyrn," she said firmly, squeezing him roughly for emphasis, "and that requires doing things you don't like. In this case, it means putting aside your desire for revenge and doing what is best for our family and its reputation. Let _me _be seen as the troublemaker," she beseeched, "don't let them think that Bryce Cousland's seed spawned warmongering whelps."

Fergus inhaled deeply, feeling his sister releasing his hands as he exhaled. "If I let you do this… you'll let me make the final decision, won't you? You'll let me decide what to do with Howe; you won't just offer him mercy and let him walk away?"

The Warden nodded. "I promise you, Fergus, that when Howe is on his knees I will defer to your judgment as to his fate. I am your sword," she smiled, "You can wield me as you wish."

"I'm holding you to this." Fergus warned, but his sister only chuckled in response as she pushed him towards the waiting crowd.

"Well?" Thomas asked, "What's it to be then, Cousland? Do you accept the terms of my challenge? Did your lovely sister give you permission?"

"I gave _her _permission, actually," corrected Fergus. "You will face my sister, and we both accept the terms of your challenge."

Howe blinked in surprise. "Is Aurora even well enough to fight? Why, she has been out of bed for merely a few hours!"

"Scared, are you?" goaded Fergus with a baleful smirk, "I would be too, fighting the slayer of the Archdemon."

"Oh I wouldn't worry too much about that one's health, Howe," commented Alistair dryly, looking at the Grey Warden with guarded eyes, "she's fought in worse shape much less than a good night's rest. And I'm going to have to agree with the Teyrn. If I were you, and lucky me that I'm not, I'd be very scared indeed to fight her."

"No need to brag, gentlemen," reprimanded the Warden. "And yes, I am quite well enough to fight you _and_ bring you to your knees, Thomas. Screaming, if needed."

"While I would do almost anything to accommodate you, Lady Cousland," Thomas's eyes trailed over her corseted chest as he gave her a simpering smile, "I am afraid it will be you on your knees, _accommodating_ and screaming for me."

"Don't you dare talk to her like that!" Teagan slapped his hand on the table as he rose, "Not after everything she's done for us! You're a disgrace, Thomas Howe!"

"Do you want to fight me too, Teagan?" Thomas laughed at the Bann of Rainesfere. "You'll just have to wait in line. When I'm done with Lady Grey, here, I may not be satisfied, so perhaps I will have the pleasure?"

"You are utterly disgusting," said the Warden, slipping between the tables to come to the center of the chamber, ready to finalize the duel. "And you haven't changed at all in the years that I've known you."

"And the only thing that changes about you is that you grow colder and colder every year, Aurora. Always chilly, like a spring morning with no sunlight." Thomas shook his head and made small _tsking _noises, "Such a waste of a beautiful woman."

"Why don't we stop wasting air, Thomas, and get this over with?" suggested the Warden, putting her hands on her hips and widening her stance. "I'm growing bored of the banter."

"Fair enough, you never did enjoy small talk." Thomas turned back to Alistair, "My king, my family's guards as well as my mother and sister wait outside the chamber. Might they be permitted to enter so that we can begin?"

Eamon shook his head vehemently at Alistair, who caught the motion and shook his own head. "Sorry, but I'm not about to let your entire household in here. You can bring in your sister and mother, but the rest stay outside."

"All right." Thomas pointed at the Warden. "Stay there." He warily walked around her, keeping a safe distance away.

The Warden merely turned her head to follow his movements as he trotted to the grand door of the hall. The door guards shared looks at one another as they pulled apart the doors, permitting the disgraced noble to exit. He returned quickly, bringing with him a small, thin woman with a bony chin and spindly hands and a younger, plumper woman with rosy cheeks and tiny, piggy eyes. The young woman, Thomas's sister Delilah, held in her hands an ornate rapier.

The Warden recognized that weapon. She'd stripped it (and everything else) from Rendon Howe's body and sold it for a large amount of coin to an Antivan vendor.

As the three of them approached her, Thomas took the blade from his sister and held it up before the Warden. "It is strange," he said softly, admiring the way the sunlight played off the blade, "I never thought I would see this again. Did you know where I found it?"

"In the Denerim marketplace where I sold it?" supplied the Warden helpfully. "You may also want to try stopping at Master Wade's Emporium for your father's armor, if you haven't already run around the city buying back all his belongings that I sold."

"There is nothing left of him that I can find," hissed Thomas. "I was lucky enough to find the blade."

The Warden shrugged. "My apologies. Do I get to choose my weapons now?"

Thomas narrowed his eyes at her. "Yes."

"Excellent." The Warden swung her eyes around the hall, "Is there someone here who can get me a sword and shield? Oh! You there," she pointed to one of the guards standing behind the throne, choosing him specifically because he appeared to be roughly her height and size. She approached him with an easy gait, passing within inches of Alistair without even sparing him a glance. "May I borrow yours?"

The guard looked at her apprehensively. "Err…you'll be returning them afterwards, my lady?"

"Of course," she smiled. "The shield may have a few dents when I am done with it, but I'll happily pay for the repair cost."

The guard slipped the shield from his arm and offered it to the Grey Warden, who placed it upon her own. The Warden felt its weight pulling on her weakened arm and shoulder, but she pushed the pain to the back of her mind. Taking the sword from the guard's waiting hand, she made a few swishing cuts and parries with the blade to get a feel for its length and balance. While neither sword or shield were of the same quality that her own missing arms were, they were suitable replacements for the menial task of beating Thomas Howe into the next week.

"Do you have a name?" asked the Warden, staring at the guard.

"W-Walter, my lady," he replied, uneasy at being so close to an armed and clearly dangerous Grey Warden.

"Thank you, Walter." She smiled at him, "it means a lot to me."

His eyes darted everywhere but at her smiling face. "Err, uh, you're welcome, my lady. Always, a…a pl-pleasure to serve."

"Hurry it up, Lady Grey," Thomas said from his position in the center of the room, running a wet cloth over the rapier's blade in slow, deliberate motions. The Warden turned to face him and Thomas quickly stuffed the cloth back into a pocket of his tunic.

"Actually, I do intend for this to be quick," said the Warden slowly, as she picked her way with careful steps down the dais of the king's throne towards the Howe family. "I don't have enough time in my days to waste it on you or your family anymore."

"And I have all the time in the world to waste on yours," Thomas motioned for her to come closer, "I will enjoy taking back Amaranthine and merging it with Highever."

"You'll have to fight the Grey Wardens for Amaranthine," Aurora took a small step to her left, sending Delilah and Matron Howe scuttling silently away like moths from a disturbed cupboard.

Thomas countered her with a step to the right, "The only Grey Wardens in Ferelden, rumor has it, are you and that traitor Loghain. Beating him will be no issue, if you could do it."

"You underestimate him too much, Thomas." The Warden adjusted her grip on the sword's pommel. "No one fights better than a man with nothing left to lose."

"Then you had better watch yourself, my dearest Lady Grey." Thomas advanced cautiously, "because that's exactly what I am."

"Your mother and Delilah must be so happy to know that they mean nothing to you," the Lady brought up her shield. "Such a good son you are, Thomas."

Narrowing his eyes at her goading, Thomas lunged. The Warden brought up her shield and walked into the blow, swinging the rapier out wide. She used her momentum to spin on the balls of her toes, smacking the elbow of her sword arm into the back of Thomas's neck. He staggered forward, rapier scratching the floor as the Warden stood watching and waiting behind her shield.

"Do you yield, Thomas Howe?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," replied Howe rubbing the back of his neck. "Not to you; not _ever._" He readied himself again, this time stepping forward and feinting a blow to the Warden's exposed head before making a slash at her leg. The Lady's foot came up to avoid the cut and stomped on Thomas's arm as it passed by, catching him off balance and sending him sprawling to the ground. She swiftly brought her boot down on the hand holding his weapon, crushing and snapping the fingers pinned beneath the rapier's handle, causing him to shriek in pain.

"Do you yield, Thomas Howe?" she asked again.

"Nyaackkk…noooooo," Thomas ground out, struggling to pull himself away from her. The Grey Warden's boot remained firmly planted on his mangled hand. He reared up to his knees, swinging a fist at the back of her knee with all the strength he could muster. He felt the knee bend as he struck it, though only because he realized too late that she had swung her shield down to hit him. His head met the cool floor as the sound of metal rending flesh faded from his ears.

"Do you yield, Thomas Howe?" the question was asked just like before. She towered above him; her shadow falling over his eyes and her boot twisting his hand painfully into the rapier's handle over and over again.

"No! Never!" he yelled, trying again to move from her.

The Warden freed his hand, backing away from him. "Then get up and fight me."

Thomas struggled to his feet, staggering as he blinked away the stars dancing before his eyes. His hand throbbed painfully, so he pulled the rapier into his undamaged hand. He felt awkward and clumsy, but all he needed to do was break her pale skin and the match was over.

"This is ridiculous," said the Warden, seeing the spectacle that was the hunched and crippled Howe. She advanced on him, sword and shield both raised.

Thomas backed away from her, the rapier rattling in his unsteady hand, but she was faster and much more precise. She lunged forward and raised her shield, cracking it against the front of his face and breaking his nose. Meanwhile her sword slapped against his injured hand with the flat of its blade and Thomas howled, blood trickling rapidly into his mouth as both cartilage and bone were wiggled and broken.

"Do you yield, Thomas Howe?" the Warden brought her sword up to his throat.

"N-no," said Howe thickly, his breathing choked as he swallowed blood. "Never."

The Warden's borrowed blade pressed into the quivering flesh at his neck, tilting his head back and drawing a pinprick of blood at the point.

"NO! No! He yields!" Delilah cried from somewhere behind the Warden, her voice growing nearer as the sound of her slippered feet echoed on the stone.

The Lady quickly side stepped around Howe, dragging the tip of her blade along his throat. She refused to be flanked.

"Delilah," grunted Thomas, "no, no I don't yield!"

Delilah approached close enough for the Warden to switch targets, and she brought the blade up against Delilah's clammy, white neck fat. "What about now? Do you yield now?"

Delilah shrieked at the sudden bite of cold steel. "T-Thomas…" she whimpered, looking at him with terrified eyes, "Maybe they'll show us mercy. The Couslands have always been fair and just. Maybe they'll let us go! Just…just yield. It can be all right. It has to be all right."

Thomas bit his lip and shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head.

The Warden raised an eyebrow and pushed her sword a little harder into Delilah Howe's neck, the older girl mewling out in fear and warbling incoherently. "Do you yield, Thomas Howe?" she asked for the final time.

His shoulders sagging, Thomas nodded his head. "I yield. For my sister's sake, I yield."

The Warden removed her blade from Delilah's throat, letting the tip of it touch the floor. "Fergus Cousland, Thomas Howe has yielded, victory is with you. What do you wish of the Howes?"

"I want their lives." The answer came almost instantaneously, and Fergus turned to look at all three Howes, his eyes black with anger. "That is what I wish of them."

"Then it shall be as you wish, Teyrn Cousland," replied the Grey Warden with a solemn nod of her head. She raised her blade, pointing at Thomas. "On your knees, and bow your head."

"N-no…" Thomas growled, "I will die on my feet as my father, and I will not make this easy for you!"

"Your father died on his knees when I cut his legs out from under him," explained the Warden. "But if you wish to die standing, I can accommodate that." She readied her sword arm to strike, but halted when she felt weight pulling at her shield.

Delilah had launched herself at the Warden, and was on her knees, gripping the shield as she begged. "Please have mercy on our family, please. We will go far away," the tears slipped over her plump cheeks, "and never come back to Ferelden. Just let us leave, we'll go right now. Please, I beg you, spare us!"

"The only mercy I can grant you," said Aurora with steely eyes, "is to spare you from watching the death of your mother and brother."

The youngest Howe sobbed against her shield, smearing her face with her brother's blood in the process. "Oh please no…oh Maker no, please don't…no…" Her hands clawed against the Warden's arm.

"Face your death from these dogs with dignity, Delilah!" shouted Thomas, "stop sobbing like that!"

"I don't want to die!" sobbed Delilah, hiccupping and whimpering against the Warden. "Oh Maker, I don't want you or mother to die! Please spare us…_please_ spare us!"

The Warden slipped into the protective shield of ice she had wrapped around herself since Highever, blocking away nagging feelings of guilt and remorse. She pulled away from Delilah, knocking the sobbing woman backwards onto her rear. "I am the blade, and I do as my wielder asks."

Delilah struggled up onto her knees, her hands before her to plead once more, but the Warden had already thrust her blade downward into the young woman's heart. Delilah's hands scrabbled furiously at the blade sticking out of her chest, but then they fell limp as her head lolled back and her body went slack. The Warden stepped away from the body and pulled her blade out, twisting it as she did so. Blood bloomed out of the ragged cut in the other woman's chest.

Matron Howe's howl of sorrow chilled the Landsmeet to its very core. Delilah's mother hitched up her skirts and hurried to her daughter's lifeless corpse, cradling her head in her spindly hands. Matron Howe plucked at her hair, clawing and ripping at the graying strands in grief as she shrieked like a wounded beast at a hunt.

Slowly slipping her shield off her arm, the Grey Warden took her blade in both hands and strode towards the Matron. Using the force of her momentum, she brought the blade down against the back of the older woman's neck, sinking to her knees to carry out the stroke to completion. The Matron's head and hands rolled across the floor towards Thomas, the blood spurting out of her neck splattered all over him before her body fell forward over her daughter's.

The Warden felt hot blood seep through her pant leg, and looking down saw the expanding pool of blood begin to envelop her. She carefully stood and stepped away, mindful not to dirty her boots anymore than she had to. Thomas looked at her with utter loathing, his teeth yellowed from the blood staining them.

"I curse you, the Couslands, and the Grey Wardens," he hissed, "I hope that everything you touch withers and dies, that your womb becomes shriveled, and your heart decays. I hope you fail." He raised his voice to address the entire Landsmeet, "I hope you all fail and Ferelden burns in - "

Lady Grey said nothing as she pushed her blade between his lips and out the back of his skull. Thomas's eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp as he fell to the floor. All around her the Howes lay dead and the eyes of the Landsmeet lay transfixed upon her in awe and horror. She heard Alistair shifting behind her on the throne, his armor rattling against the wood.

"Teyrn Cousland, it is done," she said, her voice and posture both still and strong. "Do you require anything else of me?" She met Fergus's gaze, and his eyes were as cold as she knew hers must have been.

"Nothing more, Grey Warden," answered Fergus with an approving nod of his head. "Thank you, for being the champion of House Cousland."

"Bann Mayfaire makes the motion to remove the Grey Warden from the Landsmeet," said a tall, lean man with graying blond hair and a short moustache, his tone one of outright disgust. "It is distracting that she is the source of disruption at every Landsmeet she attends."

"Is there a second for the motion?" asked Alistair wearily.

"Bann Lisabeth seconds the motion."

"Motion has passed." Alistair gave the Warden an apologetic smile. "I'm truly sorry but I'm afraid you'll have to leave the Landsmeet."

"Of course, my king," replied Lady Grey with a nod. "Allow me to give Walter his sword and shield back?"

"No! No!" shouted Walter from the dais, "Its ok! Keep them! I'll go s-s-s-see the quartermaster!"

The Warden shrugged. "Very well. I…apologize for the mess." She turned from the king, turned from them all, gathered her arms, and strode towards the grand entry way she had come through. She could feel the burning gazes and curious stares at her back, but she held her head up high and kept her back straight. She passed the guards at the door, nodding to them both as they stared at her with caution, eyeing the sword and shield she carried. She chuckled and shook her head at them.

"We'll have an hour recess," she heard Alistair say to the murmuring Landsmeet behind her, "so that we can get this mess cleaned up. We'll meet again with the afternoon meal." And then all went silent as the door shut and she was enveloped in the gloom of the passageway she had been brought down. All she had to do now was navigate back to her rooms, clean up, and make herself scarce.

--

Winifred and Elissa had tried to get the story from her of why she was splattered in blood when she had returned to her rooms, but Lady Grey had shook her head and kept her silence. They reluctantly found her a basin of water and a fresh change of clothes, fussing and clucking their tongues about the possibility of her getting injured or worse.

The Warden had never really minded the possibility of either things occurring, as one was a learning experience and the other was a relief.

Still, as glad as she was for the concern of the two mages, she needed some time to herself. The Warden needed to settle her mind and come to terms with the outcomes that were likely to occur because of the events that had just transpired.

That is how she came to find herself at the door to the castle library, with Dane nuzzling at her leg begging for attention. She had taken the Mabari with her for company. He wouldn't distract her or say anything to take her mind off the task at hand; he would just sit at her side silently and offer his support. He was smart enough to understand, and even smarter not to talk.

"Now," she reminded him, her hand tracing the door handle, "don't chew any of the books. They're not easily replaceable, if they are at all."

Dane whimpered hanging his head, no doubt remembering all the scoldings he had received in Castle Cousland for such behavior.

"Just sit by my side and keep me company. You can drool on me all you like," the Warden laughed quietly to herself and pushed open the door, revealing the expansive chamber that was Denerim's royal library. Hundreds of old texts were lined against the walls and in grand bookcases, while thick tapestries hung from ceiling to floor to divide the huge room into sections.

Dane's stumpy tail wiggled happily as he followed his awed mistress from section to section, her slim fingers skimming against ancient bindings. She didn't stop to pick up any titles. Instead, she weaved her way into the furthest recesses of the place until she found a secluded couch that was lit by only the faintest rays of sunlight from a window far above them.

The Warden sat on the couch, and Dane jumped up beside her, settling himself on the far end so that she could use him as a pillow. Lady Grey sprawled herself out on the seat and shut her eyes, synching her breathing to that of Dane's. The large war hound took long, deep breaths that she matched pace for pace, and she felt the fear and anxiety of the past hour's deeds slowly begin to melt away. She sorted through her memories, reliving the moments of the day, understanding and accepting each one as they passed through her mind's eye.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here, occupying the only damn couch in my section of the library."

Lady Grey's eyes fluttered open at the voice. "Loghain." She turned her head to look at him, and saw the bundle of documents he held in his arms. "I…am surprised you're still in the castle."

"I am laying low. If the Princeling finds me, no doubt he'll have my head cut off for trespassing." Loghain shifted the papers in his arms. "Are you going to move?"

"Oh." The Warden sat up, freeing up a Loghain sized space on the long couch.

Loghain moved as if to sit, but Dane had moved from his resting position and was bumping his nose against a purse at Loghain's waist, whimpering and whining, tiny tail wiggling.

"You want the cheese I have in my pocket, do you?" Loghain chuckled, freeing one arm to open the brown leather pouch and pull out a small wedge of local cheese. "Don't scoff it all down at once, don't want you getting sick now, do we?"

Dane barked happily, his eyes fixated on the yellow stub that Loghain held between his fingers.

"All right then, here you go." Loghain dropped the piece of cheese into the Mabari's waiting mouth. He watched the dog chew on it hungrily, his tongue coming up to lick at his chops as he whined at Loghain for more.

"Dane," scolded the Warden, "you've had plenty of treats today. Come here out of his way, you dopey dog."

It was with mournful eyes that Dane turned from Loghain and flopped languidly at his mistress's feet.

"He's very well behaved," commented Loghain as he gingerly took a seat beside her. "Normally you can't get a Mabari to stop once they've smelt something they want."

"He learned his lessons the hard way, unfortunately," replied the Warden, recalling Nan's furious rants about the dog. Granted, Nan had always had a soft spot for Dane, but she had not made his life easy.

"The best lessons often are." Loghain peeled the edges of the parchment away from one another, revealing varying maps of different shapes and sizes.

"What are the maps for?" asked the Lady, peering at them as he exposed them one by one. "Are you planning a campaign?"

"No, I'm just passing the time." Loghain looked at her from the corner of his eye, "the Landsmeet is taking longer than I expected."

"Is that so?" replied the Warden carefully, "I am not even sure how long they are supposed to last; I have been to so few of them."

"Yes, things were a little late in starting to begin with because the King was tied up with Chantry business." Loghain's look became knowing, "and once he entered, a duel took place. Strange, don't you think, about all the duels that are happening in Landsmeets these days?"

Lady Grey grunted. "It takes two people to be involved in a duel."

Loghain nodded. "You don't have to tell me that. I learned what it was like to face you the hard way. Not a lesson I'll forget anytime soon." He chuckled, "too bad no one else is able to learn by my example. They have this terrible habit of underestimating you, I'm not exactly sure why."

"Do you think it is because I'm a woman?" teased the Warden.

"That very well could be it," Loghain paused in thoughtful silence, "though I would never write off your own sex like that. It's probably because of your youth."

"Then it doesn't seem like my situation is likely to change anytime soon." The Warden sighed and settled back on the couch, her eyes focusing on the tiny floating dust particles in the air.

"You did the right thing, you know, if my opinion matters to you," said Loghain quietly.

"By killing the Howes or striking the blow?"

"Both." Loghain turned to regard her, his knee accidentally bumping against hers. "Men like Thomas Howe and his father fight with things other than their hands; they use words, or deceptive tricks like poison. I have no doubt that he intended to poison you in some way, to weaken and cripple you, before finally killing you. Though he may not have been expecting _you_ as his opponent." He let his eyes wander over her elegant features, "poison works especially well on men like your brother, as they take men like him off guard. Fighters like you, however, are harder to deceive with tricks like that. You think and you plan too much. Besides," the older Warden shrugged. "Having been to and participated in more Landsmeets than you, I can assure you that if Fergus had been in your place, you both would have been banned from the chamber for the remainder of this year's session. You just happened to save his life and his reputation."

"I'm _banned_?_" _asked the Warden incredulously. "I was _invited _there. It isn't my fault that Howe invoked the duel."

Loghain chuckled again, "Yes, you are banned. They may never even let you in again at all, though that would be up to the king to decide. But don't worry, you aren't missing anything. You've probably been the source of the most exciting Landsmeets in the past twenty years."

"I'm not particularly pleased at being a source of entertainment." The Warden crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well, that's what you get for participating in a circus like the Landsmeet."

The Warden raised her eyebrow at him. "You really don't like any of them, do you? Any of the other nobles."

"No and neither should you, if you're smart." Loghain went back to his maps, "they came to their fortunes by birth and sometimes have no sense of the common man."

"Ah yes, you were a commoner." The Lady regarded him intently, eyes dancing over his strong nose and jaw. "It is easy to forget that."

"I never forget it," he thumbed through the maps, pulling out an old map of Ferelden, its borders smaller and misshapen.

With gentle, tentative fingers, the Warden touched his shoulder to get his attention. "What do you think is going to become of any remaining Howe cousins?"

"If I were them," said Loghain slowly, facing her, "I would go very far away and try not to mention my family name to anyone, just in case it was to get back to you and you set out to find me."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're playing with me."

"Young lady, you may be no more than just a slip of a girl, but you terrify me more than any Archdemon," Loghain replied seriously.

The Warden's hand slapped his arm in reproach and he broke out into laughter.

"You are a bad man, Loghain Mac Tir. I am not as bloodthirsty as that."

Loghain shrugged, still smiling. "They don't know that. But in all seriousness, the remaining Howes will probably fade away after the example your brother set."

"They won't cause trouble for Fergus?" The Warden's eyes darted down the maps again, spotting the lands of Highever before they were Highever.

"No, they probably won't. And if they do…" Loghain let the statement trail off. "Well, it won't matter, will it?"

"No. No I suppose it won't." She drummed her fingers against her knees rapidly. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have any more cheese on you, would you?"

Loghain regarded her warily. "Maybe I do, why?"

"Can I have it?" the Warden gave Loghain a crooked, embarrassed smile, "I'm _starving._"

* * *

_Sorry for the delay in the update! We can all blame finals for it. But look, super long chapter and a brand new rating thanks to all the violence and future smut! :D_


	8. Interlude II

**Interlude II: After the Landsmeet **

_"I still can't believe you let __**him**__ live." _

_ The Landsmeet had been over for a scant few hours and Loghain had been taken by Riordan to prepare for the Joining. Riordan had said he would come to get the Lady when all was ready, but since she had retired to her quarters an hour ago she had not heard from him. _

_ She had been preparing for the upcoming battle when the interruption came. Scattered around her lay maps of Ferelden, with their various cities and provinces painted in great detail, some marked up with the black ink from her quill and others still untouched. They, along with the troop rosters of the Bannorn, had been thrust into her hands by the anxious nobles shortly after Arl Eamon had announced they would be marching to war. 'Tell us how they think,' the Banns and the Knights had asked of her, as if she'd been a Grey Warden all her life, 'Plan for us how they will move. Prepare us for how they will attack.' _

_ The job was more suitable for Riordan, who'd had a lifetime of living, fighting and thinking like the Darkspawn. But as he was otherwise preoccupied, the Lady knew that she had to do her best to fulfill the wishes of her army's patrons. She had no formal knowledge of warfare, but she did know a thing or two about tactics. Using what experience she'd had fighting the Darkspawn and the innate information she drew from the link to them, it was not long before she was able to make reasonable assumptions about how the Darkspawn would react to varying frontal, flanking and counter attacking maneuvers that the Banns were planning to throw at them. Riordan would have done a more thorough and swifter job than she, but __**some**__ knowledge was better than __**no**__ knowledge and for an amateur she was doing quite well. _

_ After all, she had still been dancing at parties and attending salons with her mother a handful of months ago. Yet now she was a commander and a Grey Warden, and the laughing, smiling girl of Highever with her petty insecurities and fears of failure needed to be shut away and done with. Naturally, this was a task easier said than done, but circumstances had made it necessary. Now the Warden was finding that her fear was being replaced by puzzlement and her doubt by resolve. _

_ So when it was that Alistair flung the door open without knocking and kicked it shut behind him as he entered, she was not afraid but curious. The resounding force of the door slamming open and shut had rattled the ink stand on the bookshelf beside the Grey Warden. She could do nothing but watch his fury as he stood before her. Alistair was a man caged by weight of birth and deed, and it made him decidedly angry and dangerous. _

_ He paced at furious speed, wearing down the fine rug with his nervous and outraged footsteps. He sucked all the air out of the room with the ragged breaths that gave volume to his passionately angry address of her. "You LET him live."_

_ The Grey Warden sat calmly in her chair by the bookshelf, with her maps and her battle plans serving as ineffectual shields from the fury of the king. "There was no reason to let him die, Alistair." She tried to combat his wrath with her temperance, to counter the heat of his fire with her cold Highever winds. "It would have been - " _

_ "There was EVERY reason to kill him!" the king of Ferelden's hands clenched and clawed at the air by his sides. Alistair decided to have none of her placation, refusing to check his mounting anger at this the most bitter of betrayals. "How… __**how **__could you? He killed Duncan and every other Grey Warden in Ferelden. They were __**our **__brothers and sisters in arms! He even killed his own king. Cailan was like a son to him! Maker's breath, he was the son of __**his best friend!**__" _

_ "- a mistake." The Lady sighed and noticed that her readied quill had wept fat, black splotches onto the map in her lap. She deposited the quill back into the well and blotted away the splatters on the page with the edge of her sleeve. Even as she completed the mundane cleaning her eyes never left Alistair's form. She could not take her eyes off him; she would not. Lack of vigilance in watching the Beast had caused many the death of a fair young maiden, and Riordan's plans required her alive (required them all alive, to be truthful). "No, Alistair. There was no reason to execute him, unless you wanted to become a monster as well?" _

_ He continued to pace though he turned away from her, avoiding having to look directly at her. Alistair intended for this tactic to halt her conciliatory tones and inspire some sort of action. He knew that his lover hated to be ignored, and in turn he hated her provocative need to understand everything. He had to get away from her peering, searching eyes. Her peering, searching and __**betraying **__eyes. They bewitched him and tried to trick him into understanding and, worst of all, agreeing to things that he knew in his heart were wrong, and for just this once he was not going to let it happen. _

_ Pushing the parchment and maps carefully to the floor, she stood and walked towards him, her hands before her in defense. The Warden approached as one would a wounded animal, with the utmost caution and most non-threatening of demeanors. "If you had killed Loghain," she began quietly, "you would have been ruled by your fear and your mistrust. At the expense of Ferelden's survival, you would have persecuted those poised to offer the greatest help because you didn't like them." She stressed her words as she glided closer. "You are a king, Alistair, and you must ACT like one. You are a good man and I promise you that you will be a good king if - " _

_ Alistair heard her feet on the stone and turned on her, his hands coming up to capture her arms painfully. "Right, so what good is it being king if my orders aren't even carried out?" he asked her. " What good is it to force me on the throne when you won't even let me rule when I get there? Well?" His eyes narrowed, and his fingers dug into the flesh of her upper arms. "You can't undermine the authority of kings, or else what's the point in having them?" _

_ Her hands came up to softly rest against his chest, holding him at a distance yet reaffirming her presence as both a woman and his lover. "Your authority was not undermined." She stared at him steadily, "it was my right as a Grey Warden to recruit for the cause, and that includes the condemned." _

_ "But being a Grey Warden __**is an honor**__. It isn't a second chance for death!" His face came in close to hers, his breath fanning hot across the Warden's cheeks, "what about Howe? Surely we could have used him? Why didn't you see it fit to enlist him in the Grey Wardens? What? That idea doesn't sit well with you does it? Where was your mercy and forgiveness then?"_

_ She pursed her lips, and gave an irritated exhale of breath. "Howe did not surrender. He did not lay down his arms to accept defeat after honorable combat, he either wanted to have it all or be dead. Loghain - "_

_ "Lucky you," he interrupted, shaking his head in frustration. "I don't think I can even stomach the idea of the Grey Wardens harboring someone like Loghain. It's disgusting. He's evil, and we're NOT evil. I…" He looked to the floor, his gaze haunted. "I don't want to be a part of it. I don't want to be a Grey Warden anymore."_

_ She blinked, taken aback by his attitude, "Alistair…you can't just stop being a Grey Warden."_

_ His eyes darted back to her face and he squared his jaw. "Just watch me." He shoved her away with disgust, moving to the door with a strange sort of finality. _

_ But she was not so quick to let him go and caught a hold of his shirt. Her fingers bit into the smooth fabric of the tunic and she held him firmly in place, slowly pulling him back towards her like a spider does to something in its web. "Alistair, don't act like this. The Grey Wardens need everyone they can get right now. Riordan said that - " _

_ He glared at her over his shoulder, his mouth turned up into a petulant sneer. "Why do you care, __**honestly**__, why do you care? You were so against becoming a Grey Warden. Duncan mentioned he had to conscript you, and drag you kicking and screaming from Highever." His hands came up and forcefully plucked away her fingers that grasped and clung to his shirt like stinging nettles. "Without him, you'd be dead. We'd all be dead. You can't replace men like Duncan, especially not with someone like Loghain! It's just wrong! It tarnishes __**everything**__ the man stood for and their deaths at Ostagar." _

_ "I'm NOT replacing Duncan with Loghain!" her hands struggled back against his, her fingernails scraping and cutting his skin while his fingers twisted and bruised hers. "I am doing what Duncan would have done. He would never have let Ferelden's greatest general and military strategist die without a chance of serving the Grey Wardens and ending the Blight."_

_ Alistair's shirt ripped and he staggered backwards at the force that he pulled her hands free. "Duncan would never have wanted any of this to happen!" he yelled at her. "He would never have wanted me to be king, never have wanted Loghain as a Warden, in fact, if Duncan was alive, none of this would have happened and the Blight would probably already have been stopped!" _

_ "I do not agree with all of those statements," she said firmly, weathering his anger by rubbing her sore fingers. "He would have done some, if not all, of those things for both the Grey Wardens and Ferelden. The Grey Wardens do anything it takes, even if they do not particularly like it." _

_ "You…" Alistair turned from her, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't think I know you anymore. You think this is all a game, don't you? 'Let's see how many ways we can empower the Grey Wardens, nevermind the people who get hurt along the way! Oh, and guess what, I don't even like them to begin with!'" He grunted loudly in his frustration. "The Grey Wardens aren't about power, they're about stopping Blights. Hello, is there anyone in that thick skull of yours? Don't you remember history?" _

_ Parts of what he said were true, but the other parts…"No." She followed him and tried to touch him, but he evaded her every move, always slipping just out of finger tip reach. "This is not a game. That a Grey Warden sits on the throne and a strategic genius joins our ranks is not only what is best for the Grey Wardens, it is what is best for Ferelden. Alistair," she urgently insisted, "__**you**__ are what is best for Ferelden. The people don't need Anora, they need you. They need someone who will protect them, someone who is a rallying point and isn't tainted by doubt and corruption." _

_ "Oh yeah, right, like my novelty is going to make me a better ruler than Anora." He had stopped by the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantle and his head resting on his arm. With his back ramrod straight, he sighed wearily. "I don't want any of this. I __**told **__you I never wanted any of it yet you've just effectively ruined my life. Our life."  
_

_ "It doesn't have to be like that." She crossed the space between them on her tiptoes, trying not to disturb the air, the atmosphere… anything so that he didn't retreat again. "We can make this work. We can try to." The Grey Warden wrapped her arms about his midsection and brought her cheek to rest against his shoulder blades. "My love was never conditional on the status of your birth, and being a king does not have to be a punishment." _

_ Alistair shuddered at the touch of her body and squirmed away from the advance of her breasts on his back and hands on his chest. "When you decided to put me on the throne, did you think you'd be queen?" _

_ "No." The Grey Warden shut her eyes, feeling Alistair's uneven breathing. "I have never expected anything from you than…" she paused, trying to consider what to say next. She had grown good with words, but now they were eluding her._

_ "Than my what? Than my duty?" _

_The contrasts of the man were overwhelming: king and jester, warden and lover, friend and enemy. "There's more to it than that," was all she could simply say, as she fumbled about for a proper response. _

"_It's got to be duty, what else could it be? There certainly never is room for choices of my own when they involve the wellbeing of __**my life**__." He shifted, pulling free from her arms and turned to face her. Alistair watched her step back in response and saw how she folded her hands before her as she patiently waited for him to continue. _

_Alistair could not help but be unnerved at how still she could be, like time had stopped moving around her. He had told her not long after meeting her that she reminded him of the mist that slept on the waveless Lake Calenhad, motionless and cold in the morning light. Her calmness and unflappable poise after battles made him uncomfortable. He'd jokingly said to her that she needed to stop being so composed and be a normal person… but she didn't. The longer he knew her, the more intense her silence had become. _

_But the King shrugged away his thoughts, finding it easier not to dwell on the past. "Everyone has always been there telling me what to do no matter how badly I never wanted any of it: you, the Arl, the Revered Mother, Duncan… I guess duty is no different. But you know what, I'll be king. I'll do it. I'll rule Ferelden…"_

_The Warden continued to stare at him, nodding her head for him to continue because he clearly was not finished. She knew that conversations such as these were never short and did not bode well for lovers. Leliana, with her soft eyes and warm Orlesian tones, had told her many stories where after the reluctant Prince takes the throne, he heaves behind his lady love to bitterness and despair. In both fantasy and reality, it seemed that no prince was able to keep his princess. In this version, however, the Warden was determined not to throw herself out of a tower in disgrace once Alistair was done with her. _

"_But you know, being a king I have a duty. A duty to provide heirs." Alistair continued, "Since we're all so concerned about Theirin blood on the throne, that seems to be a pretty big indication of what I have to look forward to."_

"_It isn't about the blood," she said, frowning. "It is about Ferelden."_

"_Don't." He held a hand up to silence her. " This was about blood and you know it. Eamon's already made it clear, you don't have to cover for him." He pursed his lips. "Besides, this __**is**__ 'for Ferelden.' Having an heir __**is**__ 'for Ferelden.' Being a king is different from being a Grey Warden. Once the Blight is over, I'm going to have to get married, and have kids, and rule and well, you get the picture."_

"_Yes, I know. What is it you're trying to tell me?"_

"_Duncan never told you about all the side effects of being a Grey Warden," Alistair looked off to the side, his cheeks flushed, "and I never told you either." _

_She raised an eyebrow at him. "This is about an heir, isn't it?"_

_He nodded. "It's nearly impossible for one Grey Warden to conceive, let alone two. Maybe you could have a child on your own, and maybe I could on my own. But together…"_

"_Together we could not have a child," she finished for him. The Warden had known that something like this was coming, but it still hit her hard in the gut. That ability that made her a woman, that thing she had been defined by since she'd first gotten her moon blood was gone. It did not come as a relief to her to know that such a burden had been lifted from her shoulders, because she had still dreamed that girlish dream and wanted that womanly want. Now…_

_Now it was just one less set of outcomes to plan for. _

"_Right. You and I can't be together." His laugh was bitter, "for the good of Ferelden, we can't be together. You can't be my queen. You could be my mistress, for all that's worth, but not my queen." _

_It was not in the Lady's nature to beg, to plead with him to reconsider. It could not be in her nature to be weak, womanly weak. What was the point? She was not a woman. Moreover, she was certainly not going to become his mistress. That was both irresponsible on her part and disrespectful to his future wife and her honor. She wanted to tell Alistair that it would not have been for lack of trying, that perhaps they could have enlisted the help of Wynne or the Circle of Magi but… with the way he stared at her with the betrayal in his eyes, it was…too painful. It was going to be too painful for her to beg and she was too proud to try. _

"_And you know," Alistair continued, pressing on against her with his face darkened in resolve, "I don't think I'm sorry that it turned out this way, because I don't know if I can even forgive you for what's happened." _

"_You will have to learn forgiveness then, my King, because Mercy and Forgiveness are the tools of great men and sovereigns," came her deceptively placid response, as beneath her silky tone a great tempest of emotions raged. _

"_Oh? I know you've seen me plead mercy and forgiveness throughout our journeys, but when it comes to learning to both forgive and grant mercy on something my own heart cries out against, well…" He shrugged off her veiled gaze, her traitorous eyes, and moved to the door. "…when I learn how to do it, I guess you and Loghain will be the first ones to know." _

_And he was gone, not even shutting the door behind him. She was left standing there with her hands folded before and a chill resting deep in her bones. It was with stiff and heavy limbs that she closed her door, trying to wrap her mind around Alistair's words. It felt like Highever all over again, where her sudden grief was mingled with her rage and desire for revenge. But she forced her rage into reason, the shame into resolve, and the hurt into motivation. She forced her mind onto the more productive task of locking the door and returning to her work._

_It was with her silence and steadfast demeanor that she had not lost herself amidst the chaos of her life. The Warden buried herself in duty and kept her mind occupied with strategies and plans where others might have turned to tears or the bottle. She tried to stay one step ahead by planning every available outcome and then every subsequent outcome after that, creating long chains of possibilities that might or might not come to pass. _

_And up until recently she had kept herself busy with Alistair, relearning slowly how to laugh, and flirt and love. With him she was forgetting tragedy and was slowly thawing against the warm fire that their love had kindled. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps in her planning and her machinations she had gone too far and irrevocably damaged what had lain between them. _

_Yet now that she was in better control of herself and she was able to think clearly, she could not really bring herself to feel regret. She was sad that things had turned out the way they did, but ultimately this was for the best. For Ferelden. For the Grey Wardens. For everyone. Alistair would learn to be happy and she…well. She would go on. She always did, because that's what the Couslands were known for. They always did their duty and they saw it through to the very end. _

_She gathered her parchment and her battle plans from the floor and arranged them in her lap and around her feet again. If what Riordan had implied was true…there would be no need to plan for any out_c_omes after tomorrow, because they all led to the inevitable. _

_

* * *

_

_I apologize for the angst in the chapter. Normally I try to end on a high note, but there wasn't much room for it here. The next chapter should be a little bit more upbeat/delightfully awkward. Who knows, a better behaved Alistair may even be making an appearance! On that note, I would just like to say that I really do like Alistair, and I greatly enjoyed his romance, but the way he acted at the Landsmeet just came out of left field for me. So this is me exploring that behavior, and utilizing his betrayed, angry and above all petulant side. It isn't Alistair hating or bashing! *flees from the arrows, shouting, "Happy holidays, everyone!"*  
_


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The kitchen's hearth was warm as the Warden sat in a chair by the crackling fire, her dog sleeping soundly at her heels. In her lap was a plate of food, which she was picking at and eating with relish. Her fingers tickled at the meat of a massive bird's thigh, stripping thick chunks of delicious flesh away and bringing them to her mouth greedily. Her manners forgotten in her haste, she licked the oil and fat from her fingertips after each bite before they returned to their task of slipping along bone and tendon, pulling the tender meat from the skin and crevices. Besides the leg on her plate, there was a smattering of boiled, salt-buttered potatoes, pickled red cabbage, and a thick chunk of crusty bread that was hot to the touch.

The small piece of cheese that Loghain had offered her earlier had only fanned the flames of her hunger. She had tried to take tiny, unobtrusive bites of the sharp Denerim cheddar, but her plan had failed as the cheese had held delicious dominion over her sensitive taste buds.

"You look a bit like a mouse," Loghain had commented while looking at her out of the corner of his eye. At the Warden's responding series of high-pitched squeaks, he had cracked a very small smile and shook his head. "With the way this castle works, it's probably best if you get to the kitchens now. Everyone is going to be too preoccupied with serving the crowd at the Landsmeet to notice you."

She'd followed his advice and once at the kitchens she hadn't needed to accost the cook at all. He had been very good to her, very good indeed. He was different from the one she had met earlier (not that the first cook she'd met had been bad to her) and had seemed surprised to see her. It was likely that perhaps he had just arrived and was replacing the morning kitchen's master for the afternoon and evening meals. Kissing her on both cheeks and crushing her against his massive girth, he'd herded her around the varying cooking tables, pushing servants out of the way as he reached for different foods to put on her plate. She looked very much like a hungry orphan as she'd followed him, with her plate held before her and a look of longing on her face. Dane had walked just behind her, mimicking her expression though the cook had ignored him entirely. (It was likely he'd learned such a trick from a lifetime of working with Mabari.)

"So thin!" he had exclaimed, dropping the poultry onto the plate.

This had earned him an embarrassed chuckle from the Warden, who knew she wasn't exactly _thin_ in the classical sense of the term. While she was more muscle than fat, it was not always in the places she wished. But yes, compared to the cook she was most definitely thin. "And very hungry," she had countered, sneaking a sliver of crackling from the thigh. It melted in her mouth, the buttery fat of the skin nearly overwhelming her.

"I'm putting you by the fire," he had directed her to the servant's rest area, gesturing for her to take a seat on a nearby stool. "You can stay here as long as you like, and if you need anything else, you let me know. Let it not be said that I did not take care of the Hero of Ferelden personally."

The corner of her lips quirked slightly as the Lady remembered the discussion. "Oh, really, you don't have to call me that…" the she had protested half-heartedly, reaching out to grab the plate of food that moved just out of her reach as the cook turned from her at the last second.

"Nonsense." The cook had then whistled sharply. "William! Wine for the Hero!"

From a sudden clattering of pans and platters had come a pock-marked youth carrying a small cup. Red liquid had sloshed over the rim as he handed it to the Warden, and it had run suspiciously over her hands like a less viscous version of blood.

"Idiot!" the cook had roared, noticing the mess on the Warden's hands. In his struggle to kick the boy, he brought the plate of food close enough to the Warden that she had managed to slip it away from him.

"Don't worry about it," she had assured him, depositing her cup on the ground by her feet so that she could tuck into her meal as soon as she could. She had given a stern look at Dane, warning him that he was not to go anywhere near her wine. The Mabari, who had positioned himself in front of the flames, didn't even lift his head to acknowledge her silent command. He just whined in miserable pity and had continued warmed himself as if the flames were the only comfort in life he'd ever known.

"I'm sorry about William, my lady. The boy's been a bit of a mess since…well, you know."

The Warden had merely nodded her head at the cook and rubbed her wine-stained hands along her pant leg to dry them. From that point, the cook had thanked her for her service profusely and swore that he was going to name his next child after her. To this she'd smiled shyly, and drummed her fingers along the earthenware as she waited for his platitudes and praises to end. He had only stopped when her stomach started rumbling loudly and had left her with many more apologies.

Leaving her where she was at the present, devouring the bird and using the bread to mop up the fowl's fat that had mixed with the sour red cabbage juice and salty potato butter.

The Warden felt a pair of suspiciously warm, soft hands touch the back of her neck and delicately trail along her shoulder blades. Her neck and shoulders were only protected by the thin material of her shirt and she could feel the sensation of nails lightly scratching along her body as though she was naked. She shivered at the pleasant touch of her assailant and turned to find the source of the hands, finding a pair of eyes the color of Antivan sand.

"I go looking for information about the beautiful and slumbering Grey Warden, and I find her all by myself."

"Zhuvrun?" she asked in surprise, remembering her mouth was still full and pulling a hand forward to cover it.

"Who else?" The assassin slipped beside her, lowering himself to the floor at her feet. His handsome face was smiling at her. "You know, it is good to find a place in this castle that is actually warm. In Antiva, we have rooms that are designed to either cool or heat the occupant based on the direction of the sun and the season. Here, everything is just so poorly designed."

Needing a sip of wine to swallow her rather large mouthful, the Warden took a long swig of her drink. She eyed the elf from over the rim of her cup, noticing his plain looking attire and simple hairstyle. Grey, rough spun pants and an ill-fitting leather jerkin did not suit the normally flamboyant elf. "Our homes stay cold all year round. Surely one out of two isn't bad?"

"No, I suppose not. It is better than nothing. At least you are cool in your terribly mild Ferelden summers." Zevran chuckled. "But my, you are looking remarkably healthy and, if I might say so, radiant after your slumber. Tell me, did you dream of me?" He grinned impishly, his eyes twinkling mischievously in the fire light.

"Oh yes, Zevran," the Warden patted his shoulder awkwardly with the side of her hand, trying not to get her greasy fingers on his leathers. "I couldn't stop. I was veritably shouting out your name every other hour, I'm told. It is quite embarrassing what my healers must think of me."

"I am glad to know that things have yet to change!" Zevran's grin widened and he looked up at her with his keen, piercing eyes. "But truthfully, you have had us all very worried. It has been hard to get any word of you."

"Are you the only one still in Denerim, Zevran?" asked the Lady, finding her appetite decreasing as she considered the whereabouts of her companions.

"No, we are all still here. Well. All except Sten and Morrigan." The Antivan shrugged. "Sten left something with Leliana for you and Morrigan disappeared shortly after the final battle. I _assume_ that Sten went back to his homeland. Where Morrigan went, I can not say."

"Ah," she frowned. "I would have liked to have seen both of them."

Zevran clucked his tongue. "No, no, no, now is not the time for frowning. You are alive, so it is time to be rejoicing, yes? I know that I am rejoicing anyhow." He bumped his shoulder against her knee. "Do not feel badly. Sten did not look like he enjoyed leaving, and I do not blame him. Leaving you is a very difficult thing."

"Not for everyone," replied the Warden more quickly than she had intended, "Are the others staying in a tavern?"

"Yes, down at the docks." Zevran traced the toe of her boot with an idle finger. "Many of the more commercial areas of Denerim have been completely sacked, and the guards are not allowing anyone but templars and mages into them. The pretense is that they are trying to keep us safe, but unfortunately, the real reason is to keep out the looters."

"Well, there is a lot of Darkspawn blood in those areas," replied the Warden with a look of pride, having spilt much of that blood herself. "And they could still be lurking in the city. I am sure a lot of the reasons are for our own safety, not just the safety of public and private property."

"I have killed many Darkspawn," said Zevran with a shake of his head, sending a few strands of the honey colored hair slipping over his ears, "and they know it. And yet poor Zevran can not even go visit the remnants of his favorite tavern?"

The Lady raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "I thought your favorite tavern was the Pearl?"

"I have many favorite taverns," Zevran winked at her slyly, "the Pearl is my favorite in the docks. The Wicked Witch is…was…my favorite in the market district."

"The Wicked Witch…" the Warden groaned, being familiar with both the story behind the tavern's name and its history of owners. "Oh, Zevran, why am I not surprised. But how can you have been in Denerim long enough to have favorites? I bet you never even visited the Broken Barrel or the Foamy Fellow?" Both of those establishments had equally as interesting stories, though their tales were not quite as lascivious.

"Well, I did have some time to myself when I first arrived, though neither of those places seemed interested in doing business with me. I wonder why not?" the assassin playfully arched an eyebrow as he smirked at her. "Do you think it was my devilishly good looks that put them off?"

"Probably. Maybe your accent too." The Warden pushed her potatoes around her plate with the remnants of her bread. "You are very clearly from Antiva, and you know what they say about Antivans."

"We are excellent lovers and have the finest taste," offered Zevran, poking at the toe of her boot with a sharp jab of his finger. "Or do you chilly barbarians say other things? And say," he eyed her suspiciously, "when does my lovely Warden go traipsing through taverns without me, hmm?"

"Well, I found my way into the Broken Barrel when Fergus locked me in a crate of radishes lying around in the market. Imagine the surprise of the cook when she found me crying and wailing in to what was becoming the evening stew." The Warden smiled as she remembered the scene. "Fergus got into _so _much trouble for that…"

"Oi, you lazy elf! Give me a hand here and get back to work!"

Both the Warden and Zevran turned their head to stare at William, who was staggering under the weight of a large serving platter.

"He is not a servant," said the Warden in a low voice, eyes glittering in the firelight. "And he is most certainly _not_ lazy."

William nearly dropped the large, whole roasted pork (complete with apple!) as he staggered back away from the Warden's dark glare. "Well, whatever he is, I could still use some help!"

"William! Stop harassing Lady Cousland and serve that roast, or Maker help me, I'll roast you!" shouted the disembodied voice of the cook from somewhere within the kitchen's cavernous larder.

The cook's assistant stumbled away from the pair by the fire, singing curses below his breath.

"You know," Zevran eyed William's exit, dropping his voice low, "we have not seen Alistair at all since you made him king."

"He has not tried to reach you? Come to see any of you? To check if you were all right?" The Warden furrowed her brow.

"I am sure that as king he has many other things on his mind than just a few former traveling companions." Zevran hummed in thought, "Mmm and why come see us personally when he could send the Arl of Redcliffe's younger brother in his stead? An excellent looking man, that Teagan."

"Well yes he is – wait, _Teagan _came to visit you? I…wonder why he never mentioned that." The Warden moved the plate from her lap and placed it on the floor in front of Dane's nose as she spoke, hoping that her hound would get more enjoyment from what remained than she did. She watched the Mabari instantly perk up and nibble at what was left, snapping the half-eaten poultry thigh in half with his powerful jaws.

"Did you ask him about his visit? It likely never came up because you did not." Zevran stretched out his legs in front of him, his well-worn boots crusted and caked with mud. "But there is nothing to be jealous about. It was very uneventful. He arrived one evening, bought us all drinks, and told us about what was happening in the castle and the city. He said something about not wanting us to feel abandoned in all the chaos."

"Was this before or after Sten left?"

"Oh, after." Zevran smirked. "You are not going to get over Sten leaving, hmm?" He wagged a finger at her. "You just want to be the eye of every storm."

"I just hate loose ends." The Warden hunched forward, resting her elbows on her thighs as she regarded the former Crow. "But I suppose his duty was finished once the Blight was ended, and he can return to his people with the Answer to their Question."

Zevran seemed intrigued by her statement, because he spun up on his knees to face her and rested his arms across her lap, leaning into her. "Ah. You would not happen to know what that Question was, do you?"

The Warden did not retreat from the sudden invasion of her personal space and instead came to rest her hands atop Zevran's muscular forearms. "Blight," was her simple response, and she felt the goose bumps ripple across his skin.

"The Qunari might invade," said Zevran, his eyes wandering across the high planes of her cheek bones and smooth curve of her brow, "if he gives them the wrong answer. Ferelden must look like a helpless maiden waiting to be ravaged."

"Oh, I don't know about that," replied the Warden dryly, her lips puckering into a smirk at the elf leaning on her long legs. "I think the stench will keep them at bay for some time. Not only does Ferelden smell like wet dog, it smells like burning Darkspawn."

Zevran closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, returning to regard her once he'd savored her aroma. "And only you can wear that fragrance so well, my dear Warden. On any other woman, I would be repulsed. But on you, I am insanely attracted." His fingers squeezed against the sides of her thighs, and he laughed in his low, foreign tones as her eyes widened in surprise. "Hahaha, you are ticklish! I knew it was true and I was not hearing things!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Warden plucked his wicked hands away, forcing him to sit back on his legs. "Made of the coldest steel, I am."

"Ahhh, but like a fine craftsman I can mold that steel with my fire, if given enough time of course." Zevran smiled to reveal his amazing white teeth. "You must let me give you that massage at some point."

"Zevran," asked the Warden, quickly changing topics, "how did you get in the castle anyway?"

"I got in through the servant's entrance." Zevran chuckled, "no easy feat, I assure you. I had to put soot on my face to look suitably poor."

"More likely you put soot on your face to cover that tattoo of yours," the Warden's finger trailed down the mark on his cheek at its mention, "makes you too memorable. Were you trying to hide from someone?"

"There may have been one or two servants that I wished to avoid," said Zevran in a careful manner, "but that is neither here nor there. I had originally tried the front gate, but no one believed me when I said I was a friend of the Hero of Ferelden. Funnily enough, they thought I was an imposter of someone else. Tell me, were you travelling with another handsome Antivan during your epic adventure?"

"This city is so…" the Warden released a frustrated sigh. She wanted to say, 'backwards' but she knew that wasn't the case. "I'm going to get you and the others rooms in the castle. It is pathetic that you have to stay in the docks after everything you've done for Ferelden. Did Wynne not even vouch for any of you?"

Zevran shook his head. "I suspect that Wynne did not have the time. She was taken rather abruptly to Denerim's chantry."

"Then I suppose I shall have to liberate her too. I don't know why they'd be keeping her for three weeks." The Warden chewed her lip in thought, worried about Wynne's safety. "Do you think you could - "

Zevran started, straightening to his full height in one swift, fluid motion. His training as a Crow had not been forgotten, that was certain. He bent forward slightly, ready to dart away at any moment.

"Zevran, what - "

The Antivan shushed her with a wave of his hand, and the Warden quieted her breathing and closed her eyes to listen to whatever it was that had Zevran on edge. A pair of twittering voices was slowly coming closer from down a servant's corridor, though the owners were not close enough to cast shadows on the walls. Lady Grey was constantly amazed by Zevran's keen senses. He had the sharpest eyes and ears of anyone she'd ever known.

Zevran sighed and cupped her cheek. "Unfortunately, this is my queue to exit. Keep me in your heart!" And with his supple limbs and sinewy steps, Zevran disappeared around a shelved doorway behind her and out of sight.

The Warden plucked at some hair that clung to her sleeve and waited patiently for whatever it was that had scared Zevran away to surface. Imagine her surprise when two lovely ladies rounded the final corner. Both were dressed in fine gowns of purple and white silk, cut in the high waist, low neck fashion that had become popular among the women of the court. A ribbon of purple wound its way around the neck of one and a ribbon of white was wound around the neck of the other.

They were twins. Beautiful, brunette, bosom twins and the Lady recognized them as the daughters of Bann Alana. They were about three years older than she and were known quite famously for their haunting voices. No one sang better than the ladies Aria and Rose (and there was very little debate as to who filled out their bodices better either).

With the liquid grace of shuffling skirts and dainty slippers, the ladies approached the Grey Warden after taking notice of the figure watching them from the safety and anonymity of the hearth's shadow.

"Zevran, Zevran is that you?" crooned the purple ribboned Aria, her sister clutching her arm tightly as they approached the Warden. The thick curls she had piled atop her head bounced with every step of her swaying hips.

The Lady watched them with amusement as they neared, noticing their excitement dissipate at the realization that she wasn't their quarry.

"Oh. I'm sorry," apologized Rose, giving the Warden a very brief once over with her pale blue eyes. "We thought you were someone else. I could have sworn I heard two people talking down here earlier."

"Don't worry about it," said the Warden with a shrug, mildly surprised that neither sister recognized her. "I was just talking to this Mabari here. Keeping him company. Say," the Warden regarded the two older women with an amused eye, "I'll be in the castle for a while longer, do you want me to tell this Zevran fellow that you're looking for him?"

"Oh would you?" Aria beamed, "and when you find him, could you tell him that Aria and Rose have been practicing a…special routine? We would dearly love to have his input."

The Warden nodded, enjoying the charade. "I think I can do that. What does he look like?"

Rose smiled dreamily. "He's an elf," she began, "about this high," she raised her hand to just above the curves of her creamy breasts, "with sunny brown eyes and soft, blonde hair."

"And he has a tattoo," added Aria, gesturing at her cheek. "On his cheek, right here."

"And you said his name was Zeevran?" asked the Warden, doing her best to keep a straight face.

"Zev_rahn._ Say it as if you were from Antiva," corrected Aria.

"Zev_rahn_," repeated the Warden. "Think I got it. If I see him, I'll let him know that Aria and Rose have a special act they wish to show him."

"And…could you give him something?" asked Rose quietly, "from me?"

"I…can. Of course." The Warden raised an eyebrow. "What do you - " She was silenced by the sudden pressure of Rose's soft lips against her own. The Lady was brought back to a night where Leliana had delved too deeply into her cups and –

"There," Rose pulled back. "Give him a kiss from me."

"Let us hope I come across this Zevran," the Warden replied slowly, trying to forget the woman's heady smell of roses and quell the maelstrom of emotions in her stomach that it had invoked. "I don't want that kiss to go to waste."

"We're sure it won't. Good luck in your search," Aria replied with a smile, pulling her sister away. "Come on, Rosie, there's still a great deal of castle to search!"

The faint conversation of the twins drifted away down another passageway, and the Warden brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She sat perched on the stool like that for some time, running memories through her head of the time she had spent with her companions: Leliana and her sweet smiles, Oghren and his unfailing vulgarity, Morrigan and her cryptic glances, Sten and his silence, Wynne and her wise words, Zevran and his stories, and Alistair with his kisses…

All of them were with her, even if they weren't physically beside her, and she was able to draw some comfort from that knowledge. Without them, her journey would have been lonely and futile. But memories of them were not enough. She had to see them all again, had to embrace them, had to thank them. The Lady resolved that she would make every effort to do right by them, just as they had done by her. They were her friends and they were heroes in their own right. They deserved better treatment.

And to make it happen, she knew just the man to talk to.

But of course, even several hours after the Landsmeet, Alistair wasn't in his office.

And Alistair wasn't in his private chambers.

Alistair wasn't even in the empty Landsmeet hall, the gardens, the larder, the dungeon, the observatory, the armory, _or_ the library. He just wasn't in the castle, he couldn't have been. The Warden had searched everywhere for the king and both she and Dane had found no trace of him. It was as if he had vanished off the face of Ferelden entirely, or at the very least had left the castle just to spite her efforts.

The predicament was both a blessing and a curse for the Warden. While she looked forward to the prospect of seeing him again, she was uneasy about what a private meeting between the two of them would be like. Their last audience had been painful, and while the Warden was no stranger to pain and did not fear it, she did not enjoy it. What made this particular scenario even more uncomfortable was the fact that the Warden was asking something of her king.

Rarely did the Warden ask favors of anyone, mostly because she felt that there was something intrinsically wrong about being beholden to someone else. When things were asked of her, the Warden complied and immediately wrote off the debt at the task's completion. Others were not as generous or open minded as she. The Warden did not know if Alistair shared in her philosophy, or if he did, if he would do so with her. She was worried about what the king might demand of her in return.

There was also the _other _matter that might come up, should both she and Alistair be left alone. If Alistair could not shed some light on the mystery of her recovery, then Ferelden was surely standing on the precipice of disaster. But these were dark thoughts and not appropriate for the sudden onslaught of evening gloom.

Giving up on her search, the Warden returned to her room. No doubt Elissa and Winifred had many messages for her from Fergus and the Guerreins, and when she saw them standing outside her door she knew that must have been the case. She approached her healers with weary steps, her knees stiff and aching from traveling up and down the many flights of stairs that connected the palace. Dane trotted after her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and tiny tail wiggling.

The Lady opened her mouth to speak, but Elissa was far quicker.

"You have a visitor," the elder mage said, gesturing at the closed door.

"Who is it?" asked the Warden with a frown, "Fergus? Teagan?"

"No," Winifred grinned from ear to ear, "it's the _King. _King Alistair is in there waiting for you."

The Warden blinked. "Truthfully? How long has he been there?"

Elissa shrugged. "I do not know. Winifred and I only returned a few moments ago to see if you had come back and if you were ready for dinner. You _are _ready for dinner, I presume?" The mage chuckled, already knowing the answer.

"Oh." The Warden nodded. "Yes, I'm ready for dinner. I'm starving. If they have picked veal, I would really, really like some. Also, if you hear screaming, don't be alarmed. That's just me choking King Alistair, because I've been searching the castle for him all afternoon."

Winifred's eyebrows rose in alarm. "We can't let you kill the king…"

"She's joking," explained Elissa with a sigh. "She won't really kill the king."

"If it makes you feel better, Winifred," the Warden rested her hand on the door handle, "he completely deserves it."

"Do you want us to stay nearby?" Elissa asked quietly, her gloved hand coming to rest beside the doorframe. "I only offer because a rumor has circulated from one of Arl Eamon's servants about something that occurred between you and the king."

The Warden dropped her gaze to her boots. Had her ending with Alistair truly been loud enough for the servants to hear? Ice flooded her veins. Had Eamon heard? Had Teagan? Could that have been why he was so especially nice? "No," she shook her head. "You don't have to stay. It was just a rumor." She turned the handle and pushed open the door, slipping inside her room with a last, lingering glance at the worried faces of Elissa and Winifred. The door shut as soon as Dane followed behind her, and the Mabari took up his usual place at the foot of her bed and was soon wheezing and snuffling in sleep.

"What's just a rumor?" asked Alistair, turning from his place at the window. He was dressed the same as earlier. His brightly polished armor accentuated a frame that was both tall and lean, while the thick, fur trimmed cloak gave him the illusion of broad shoulders. The diadem fell high on his forehead to wizen his appearance, and overall Alistair looked like a warrior king of old. All he needed was a Mabari of his own.

It struck Lady Grey as ironic that both Alistair and Loghain had assumed the same pose in the same place that very day. "That there are basilisks in the dungeon," said the Warden smoothly. She folded her arms across her chest. "How long have you been here, my king?"

"Hmm. I don't know. A couple of hours, maybe?" Alistair shrugged, his cloak slipping against his armor with the most luxurious of sounds. "This seemed like a good place to hide until it got dark."

"You can't really hide in that armor," the Warden dragged her eyes down his frame, noticing how the gold armor twinkled in the candle light. "You'd dazzle like the sun if given enough light, I think."

"That's why I wear the cape." Alistair drew it around him, concealing the armor with its muted red. "If it had a hood, I could have it embroidered and pretend I was a tapestry when people got too near. Or perhaps they'd think I was a bear about to attack. I think I rather like that idea." He gave the Warden a small smile.

"I suppose you could." Lady Grey regarded him with reserved eyes, unsure what to make of Alistair. "May I ask something of you, my king?"

"Not if you're going to address me as 'my king' in private." Alistair sighed, letting the cloak fall back into place. "It makes me feel old. And awkward."

"It is your title and birthright," she replied tersely. "There is no use in feeling awkward about it, my king."

"Why am I not surprised that it's going to be the title and the formality with you at all times? Wonderful." Alistair rolled his eyes. "All right, I get the picture. What is that you want?"

The Warden fingers drummed rapidly across her forearms as she spoke. "I want our companions moved into the castle. They deserve to be treated like the heroes that they are, not to be forced to sneak their way inside or live in the docks for the remainder of their stay in Denerim. I am a bit appalled at their treatment."

"Believe me, if I'd had the time, I'd have seen to it already. But…" Alistair nodded, "your desire is my command. Now you do something for me."

"What would the King ask of a Grey Warden?" asked the Lady warily.

"What the King would ask from _you, _you mean," Alistair stared at her, his rich brown eyes meeting stark grey.

"I am a Grey Warden," Lady Grey tilted her chin up in resolute defiance. "You can not separate the two, my king."

"That's just it," Alistair strode towards her, reaching out his hands to grasp her shoulders. At the last moment he stilled their movement, letting them hover just above her body as he struggled to bring himself to touch her, to be that close to her. But he couldn't. He couldn't do it. He pulled them away, letting his hands fall limply to his sides. "If I could ask but one thing… could you stop it with the 'my king' thing? It's one thing to hear it from the others, but not from you. I would hope you knew we were… beyond that."

"I can't claim to know where we are," the Warden began, trying to piece together her thoughts, "since you appear to change your mind more often than the Orlesians change their seasonal fashion."

"I said a lot of things to you that I didn't mean. Well, I meant them at the time, but I've had time to think about them. I was mad, furious even, and I don't agree with what's happened, I still don't, but I can't be as angry with you as I was then." Alistair peered into her face with eyes that were so different from the last time he had truly looked at her. They were not affectionate, but they were not accusing.

"Why?" the Warden stared back at him, curious and fearless. "What changed your mind?"

"The circumstances that you were in. That all the Grey Wardens were in," explained Alistair, purposefully leaving himself out of the categorization. "The sacrifice that has to be made to end the Blight. All Blights."

"Did Riordan tell you?" questioned Lady Grey carefully.

"No, I didn't speak with Riordan." Alistair turned from her and moved back to his spot at the window. He regarded the bright moon with a look of longing. "He didn't seem to have the time or desire to speak with me after he learnt I had decided to leave the Grey Wardens."

"I am not surprised. Riordan was very disappointed." Lady Grey moved to stand beside him, leaning forward to rest her elbows against the window's edge. She cocked out a hip and it gently jostled against him. "Did you learn the truth from Morrigan?" The question came out as soft as a whisper, and it took Alistair so long to answer her that she thought it had been lost on the faint evening breeze.

"There are… some things that I cannot tell you," Alistair closed his eyes as the wind ruffled his hair over his diadem.

The Warden chuckled darkly, watching the slowly emptying streets of the city. "Can't tell me, or won't tell me?"

"Both," Alistair mustered his courage and let his hand glide gently across her back, feeling the thick cords of the corset ties below his fingers. He felt her stiffen at his touch. Alistair was surprised at how warm she was. She was not as cold as he expected her to feel; an impressive illusion for one so fair and pale. "As a king, I can't tell you. And…well as me," he cracked an eye open to look at her, "I won't tell you."

"Well, what am I to tell the other Grey Wardens when they arrive?" the Warden tilted her head to look at him. "Do you want me to lie, my king?"

"You could tell them the truth." A half smile spread across Alistair's full lips. "Because it's true. You don't know."

"You think they'd actually believe that?" the Warden straightened, feeling Alistair's retreating hand slip over the curve of a hip. "I know I wouldn't."

"Given the choices," Alistair raised an eyebrow at her in amusement, "I think they'd rather believe your truth than any other alternative. Besides," his eyes returned to the moon with a sudden bitter glint, "you can make people believe anything, even if they don't want to."

Lady Grey pushed away from the window with a sigh; it did not appear that anything had truly changed between them. For all of Alistair's desires to go back to their former familiarity, it was no use. He would always linger in the past and she could not linger there with him. "You should probably go," she told him quietly, readying herself by the door to usher him out. "There are rumors in the castle about us. It does neither of us any good to fuel them. You will never find a proper wife if they worsen." She pulled open the door. There was no more use in continuing to plant seeds where no tree would grow.

Alistair reluctantly pulled away from the fresh air towards the awaiting hallway. He stared at the Lady as he moved, watching her even breathing and veiled eyes. He knew she was hurt and while he still hated what had happened, he respected her enough to not embarrass or pain her further. "When are you leaving Denerim?" he asked, pausing so that the half-opened door stood between them.

"As soon as I can, my king," her eyes traveled over his unreadable face. "I have much to do and not enough time, I think."

"You and I both," replied Alistair quietly. "Good night, Aurora." He passed over the threshold and out of her room.

The Warden moved to shut the door behind him, but found that it was slowly closing on its own. It was Alistair's doing; he was making a show of gently closing the door in the wake of his exit. The Warden put a hand to her confused head and another to her rumbling stomach. She hoped that things would be simpler outside of Denerim.

* * *

_Hopefully everyone had a wonderful holiday season! I know I did. :)_


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The next morning proved to be uneventful, much to the Warden's relief. She took her breakfast early in her room and chatted with her suspiciously cheerful mages before heading out into the castle. She was not allowed to leave the palace grounds, as she was still under observation. Nonetheless, that did not stop her from thoroughly overturning each rock in the garden and tapestry along the walls.

From the gossip of the servants, there was to be no Landsmeet that day. Different roles within the castle had different opinions as to why the political process had been stopped. Scullery maids and the kitchen staff swore up and down it was because the recent violence had soured the mood for negotiations. They claimed it was because those nobles who were still trepid about King Alistair remembered his relationship to the Warden and feared that he might unleash her upon them.

The chamber maids and house keepers insisted that King Alistair had simply tired of discussions without decisions. With all the nobles talking in circles and making promises with one another that they had no plans to keep, the King had needed a break. Nothing perturbed Alistair most, they said, than people in need going without assistance, and it was likely he was growing disillusioned and feeling ineffectual as a ruler. One particularly _daring _maid even went so far as to mention that she had heard Alistair lamenting over his lack of Anora's backbone.

And then, of course, the gardeners and groundsmen had guessed that in the wake of recent events, the participants of the Landsmeet had woken up and smelt the roses. The Blight was over, the Archdemon was dead, the sky had never been more blue and the wind never before as crisp. The Landsmeet needed a reprieve so that its members could live once more. They had discussed much over the course of the weeks, now they had to remember why they were there in the first place.

The Warden assumed that all the stories had pieces of truth and were best believed when combined. As it was, there was simply no Landsmeet that day. That meant that all the nobles were in their various estates unless they were seeking a private audience with Alistair. Teagan and Eamon were not going to be around, neither were Anora and her father. Fergus could be in the castle, but he would have found her already if he was, so it was likely he was still with the Arl of Redcliffe. For all intents and purposes, Lady Grey was alone.

She didn't particularly want to spend her afternoon in awkward silence with the King, and since Elissa had cast a warding charm on her she was stuck within the grounds. As soon as she stepped foot outside of the castle without Elissa's strict permission, she would become immobilized. Elissa had gotten explicit written approval from the Revered Mother to use this spell in order to safe guard and preserve the Lady's health. The Hero of Ferelden was a national treasure so long as she remained in the care of the Chantry, which hopefully was not going to be much longer.

The Warden kicked a stone across the courtyard. They were preserving her health perhaps, but not her sanity. Maker's breath, she was bored. There was nothing to do in the castle except read books and look at maps, but she didn't feel like being stationary. She had received weeks of bed rest and now she wanted to live. She wanted to visit her friends and discover what Sten had left behind for her. Thanks to the warding charm, however, she had to wait for them to come to her… and who knows when that would be?

She followed the cobblestone path she had chosen to a small rose garden. There was a stone bench at the center of all the rose bushes, and the Warden carefully picked her way through the overgrown thorny mess to the middle. All the plants around the castle had been ripped and shredded from the invasion of the Darkspawn, with the exception of the roses. The rose bushes had become wild and thick in the cover of the hoard. Bright red, pink, white, yellow, all the roses had bloomed beautifully and were doing a wonderful job of pushing away the scent of death and decay that permeated through the city.

Carefully did the Warden lower her thorn-prickled body onto the bench. She tilted her head backward and let the rays of the sun warm her chilled skin. The weather was confusing. It was hot and cold, windy and not, dry and rainy. Ferelden was becoming flustered as she slowly began to heal. The Warden didn't begrudge her country the temperamental weather. Ferelden was a soldier, just as she was. Soldiers needed time to recover after their battles. If she had to rain, well, then she would rain and the Warden would be happy for it.

The ringing of footsteps on the flagstones caused the Lady to peak open an eye. Through dark lashes she caught the outline of a young girl in long, blue skirts hurrying towards her. The girl's hair was obscured by the cloth handkerchief she wore, though the fluttering shadow she cast on the ground indicated two very long plaits were trailing behind her. The kerchief was white, just as her blouse was, and from the way she was running the Warden knew she held something in her hands.

"Lady Cousland," chimed the sing-song voice of the maid, slightly out of breath as she approached. "Lady Cousland!"

Lady Grey opened both eyes and to spare the girl the trouble of attempting to pass through rose bushes that were taller than her, she moved her way carefully out into the open. "What can I do for you, child?" She bent forward so that she was on eyelevel with the girl.

"I have a message!" the girl, who couldn't have been more than eight, gave a gummy smile. (The Warden had to chuckle; the child was missing her two front teeth.)

"Who is it from, my dear?" asked the Warden with a grin.

The girl pulled out a letter from a deep pocket in the front of her skirt. "It's from the Bann of Rainferry."

"Rainferry?" the Warden raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean the Bann of Rainesfere?"

"Yeah! That's the one!" Another gummy smile from the servant girl was followed with her lisping, "he told me to give this to you and that you had to open it right away!"

The Warden plucked the small letter from the girl's outstretched hands and broke the wax seal that bound it. Her eyes scanned over the message:

_My Dear Lady Cousland, _

_There is no Landsmeet today, and as such my time is my own. I have a suspicion that your feelings about staying in the castle are the same as mine: you'd rather face an Orlesian mother-in-law than abide another moment in its boredom. I am writing this letter a little past midday, and I expect you to receive it around mid-afternoon. I offer you an escape for the rest of the day. With this letter comes a carriage waiting at the palace gates. If you get in it, it will bring you to me and I promise to be entertaining!_

_Hope to see you soon, _

_T. Guerrein _

Teagan wanted to see her? He wanted to _entertain _her? How could she refuse!

"I must find the mage Elissa, child," said the Warden carefully, "do you know where she might be?"

"Uh, I dunno. Prolly in her rooms, maybe. Mother tells me not to go near them just in case." The girl stuck her hands in her pockets and dug the toe of her shoe into the ground. "May I go now, Lady Cousland?"

"Oh, of course." The Warden smiled, "Thank you for delivering this."

The servant girl skipped away back the way she had come, leaving Lady Grey to her thoughts. She had to find some way to convince Elissa that she would be safe with Teagan and out of harm's way. Teagan would have food to give her, maybe pickled veal, and a fire to warm her. He'd also keep her mind engaged and active. Surely those were good enough reasons to convince the elder healer to allow her the social call?

Consequently, the idea that won over Elissa was the fact that if the Warden was with Teagan he was likely occupying her attention fully and as a result, she was probably not going to get into any mischief while in his company. Provided that the Warden was back before the castle's evening curfew, she was allowed to visit the Bann. She was to eat, be entertained, but on the condition that she was on her best behavior. This was ultimately somewhat insulting for Lady Grey, since she was not sure _when _everyone had decided she was a troublemaker.

It was likely that Elissa had learned of what had happened at the Landsmeet and was not pleased. Her anger and caution were perfectly understandable, yet puzzling. Tools did not have minds of their own. Tools were used by their wielders. The Warden recognized herself as a tool of Ferelden and of her family. While she was only too happy to be held accountable for her actions, she did wish that at least the context in which the actions had occurred was considered when she was judged.

After all, when she woke up yesterday morning she hadn't _planned _to have the afternoon's executions. That decision had come much later.

But such thoughts led no where, and she knew it. She was just pleased to be able to leave. The clattering of the carriage wheels on the street reminded her of happier times in Denerim, when she would visit the stores and as a younger woman would shop for dresses and sticky pastries to ruin them with. But looking through the lace gauze curtain, this was not the same Denerim. Streets were blocked off, buildings were burnt and crumbled; the road was even torn asunder in some places. Denerim was in pain and so were its citizens.

Teagan's home seemed none the worse for wear as the carriage approached, though the Warden had never actually been inside it and as such could not truly judge its state of disrepair. She had seen the estate from the outside many times and knew who lived within it, but she and Teagan had never been formally introduced until the dire circumstances at Redcliffe.

He was lucky that his estate was closer to the southern seaboard portion of the city; otherwise he might be facing the same ruinous destruction that other nobles had experienced. The Cousland estate was on the northern seaboard, and the Warden knew from castle gossip that the gates had been ripped block by block from their foundations. But Teagan's gates were fine. And as she exited the carriage, giving a polite nod of thanks to the carriage driver, she noticed that his gardens were fine too. There was an absence of roses, but there were plenty of hyacinths, daffodils, lilies and petunias to make up for the loss.

The carriage driver hopped off his perch on the intricately designed driver's bench and offered her an arm covered in fawn colored hair. He was older than she was by the wrinkles deep in his forehead, but he had bright red hair, a smattering of freckles over his nose, and a prominent chin.

"I'm to escort you in, m'lady Cousland," he said to her with a solemn face. "The Bann's study is on the second floor and he doesn't want you getting lost."

"Is he trying to hide something from me in his home?" teased the Lady, winking. "Should I be afraid of what I might find?"

"No, ma'am," responded the driver, leading her to the stone door as he fiddled with a large row of keys on his belt. "Unless you happen to be afraid of dust and sheets?" He plucked a large golden key from amongst the many there. "Then I'd say you should probably go back to the castle. The estate doesn't get much use. Bann Teagan has not married and does not like being alone, so while in Denerim he prefers to stay at his brother the Arl of Redcliffe's estate."

"I see! How very fascinating," the Warden eyed the grand front windows as they approached the door, noticing the cobwebs and the coating of dust along the inside panes. Yes, the story was very true. "And how very sad. This seems like such a lovely place."

"Aye, you should see it when it is in full working condition," the driver stopped at the door and slipped in the key, twisting it until a series of clicks were heard. "Great place to raise a family."

"So which rooms are in disrepair?" asked the Lady, taking in the darkness of the corridor. She could hear voices, the Bann's servants and retinue of course, from all parts of the house.

"All of them except the Bann's private chambers and study, the kitchen, and the servant's quarters, m'lady," explained the driver, pulling her gently up the stairs. "We haven't even put much effort into properly setting them up, since we're unlikely to be here for much longer."

The Warden raised eyebrow at his words but kept her gaze steadily on her feet as they ascended. "Indeed, is the Landsmeet to end? Is that why you plan to depart?"

"That's what we assume," the driver sighed, but quickly added, "but we don't presume to know too much about what occurs in the castle. Bann Teagan makes the best decisions and does right by all of us. We're happy to follow his orders and keep his home in working order."

"He is a good man," the Warden lifted her gaze to look at her guide, but his eyes were focused on a point at the top of the stairs. The Warden allowed her own to wander along the many portraits lining the walls of the staircase. Were all those faces previous Banns of Rainesfere? Were they related to Teagan in anyway?

"Mind the top step, my lady," the driver instructed, halting them several stairs from the top. "There's some rot in the wood and it will have to be replaced. I don't want you to take a tumble and hurt yourself."

Lady Grey chuckled, "you know, I don't want that either. I made a promise that I would return safe, sound, and without a bruise or bloodstain. I try to keep my promises!" She continued her journey up the last few stairs and made a theatrical show of carefully reaching the second floor.

"Second door there on the right," he pointed. "Just go ahead and knock."

The Warden nodded. "I will." She smiled. "Thank you. I probably would have fallen flat on my face at the top stair if you hadn't brought me."

The driver just nodded and gave another silent point to the door.

Lady Grey picked her way across the ashen floors on the tips of her boots. The mages were still having trouble acquiring a dress, so she was in the same type of clothing affair as yesterday: a white man's shirt, a red brocade corset, simple brown pants and thick black boots. The boots were much more practical than the dainty slippers she would have otherwise been wearing were she in a dress. The Warden was not in danger of tearing the soles from her boots during a sprint or a spin. Slippers would have forced her to be overly cautious in order to preserve the integrity of their delicate stitching.

She raised a fist and rapped twice at the door. "Teagan?" she called. "Tea_gaahnnn, _I know you're in there!"

A quick rustling from the other side of the door and it swung open, revealing a beaming Bann Teagan dressed in a green tunic and dark brown pants with equally as dark boots. "You made it!" He extended his arms out wide as if he expected the Warden to fall right into him. Instead, she lowered herself against him gently, encircling her arms around his midsection and resting her chin against his shoulder. Likewise, he brought his arms around her and did the same.

"I did. I am very persuasive." The Warden closed her eyes and let a cat like grin slip across her face. "Though the condition of my being here involves me being fed and kept out of trouble."

"I can manage both of those things, never you fear." Teagan let a hand rise up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers brushing against the skin there. "Your brother sends his regrets that he couldn't be here to see you," he murmured into the hair barely contained by her thick, blue headband, "but he knows that Eamon needs his assistance."

"It's quite all right. Give him my love when you see him," said the Warden, rubbing her hands over the fine material of her friend's jerkin. "Did the Landsmeet finish well?"

"Yes," Teagan ended their familiar embrace with a reluctant twitch of his hands. He gestured to the seats and the tray of tea and scones between them. "Have a seat, my lady, and I can fill you in on the details."

"Oh, you needn't bother," the Warden picked her way over to one of the plush, high backed chairs and settled herself down on the edge of the seat. The creamy fabric of the cushions matched the draperies and tapestries that decorated the room, while the dark, rose-toned wood complimented the color arrangement perfectly. It caused her to wonder if the impeccably dressed Teagan had anything to do with it. "I just wanted to make sure that my disturbance hadn't permanently disrupted things."

"A few of the softer-stomached Banns couldn't eat their food," Teagan sat on the chair beside the Warden and picked up the plate of steaming scones. He offered one of the current speckled pastries to her. "These just came fresh from the kitchen. There's also tea, butter, some clotted cream, and summer berry jam if you want it."

The Warden plucked a small plate from the tray and chose a scone at random. She took the spoonful of butter and jam that Teagan offered but declined the cream with a murmur of, "need to watch my girlish figure."

The Bann laughed quietly as he began to dress his own scone with jam and cream. "Of all the things you could possibly worry about, you chose your weight?"

"Well, what else have I left to worry about?" asked Lady Grey with a smirk tugging at her lips. "Is there an Archdemon I forgot?"

"You aren't daunted by the prospect of leading and recruiting an order with less than two members?" Teagan took a polite sip of his tea. "You are fearless and resourceful, my lady."

"Well, I won't be on my own," the Warden broke off a piece of the scone with her fingertips. "I have Loghain with me. I am sure he knows how to recruit."

"Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten about Loghain Mac Tir." Teagan's face soured and he looked into his tea cup with pursed lips. "I would advise you to watch yourself against him. When that man wants something, he will stop at nothing until he has it."

"I will be on guard, never you worry, Teagan. Besides, there is little to fear. Should things take a turn for the worst, he knows that I have beaten him once before and can do so again."

The Bann did not seem reassured. "His battles are not always won by strength. Poison in your porridge, for example, is equally as effective."

Lady Grey took a bite of her scone, trying to stifle her good humor for Teagan's sake. "You know," she said idly, batting some crumbs from her lips, "I don't think he has much interest in leading the Grey Wardens. He would probably poison himself to get out of the duty. But come," she placed her plate with the half-eaten scone aside and inched forward to touch Teagan's knee, an earnest expression on her pretty face, "we have better things to talk about, don't we?"

Teagan put his teacup and saucer beside hers and touched her hand gently. He sighed in wistful thought. "The way you behave…the way you are… You would have made an excellent queen. Everyday I am shocked that things happened as they did."

The Warden's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "W-what? Where does this come from?"

"Forgive me for being forward," Teagan's tone was apologetic, "but I know that there was something between you and the King when I first met you at Redcliffe and I saw it later when you were staying at my brother's Denerim estate. I…must admit, Eamon and I had been hoping that when you made Alistair's bid for the throne, that you would have put yourself beside him."

"Why would I have done such a thing? Alistair should be able to choose his own queen." The Warden let out a sigh and settled as far back into the chair as she could. Tea with Teagan was not what she had originally thought it was going to be. Talk of queens? This was not entertainment, this was throwing salt in wounds that were starting to heal.

"Your family is well respected. A Cousland queen would have been fitting, if not totally appropriate, after what befell your family." The Bann watched the Warden shift and cross her legs in what he assumed was discomfort. One of her thick, doeskin boots bumped against his knee and he couldn't help it that his eyes dropped against his will to admire the expanse of her shapely, leather clad legs.

She shook her head, completely oblivious to the Bann's sudden lapse of propriety. "I would have hoped that Alistair, if he had chosen to marry me, would have done so because he enjoyed my company, the qualities of my character, and perhaps thought me pleasing to the eye."

Teagan drew himself closer to her, leaning forward in his seat beside her. "You are all of those things, but more importantly, you are a known protector of the people. We Banns do not come to our positions by mere wealth; we must show our quality by defending our neighbors and subjects. Your skills with a blade and your family's reputation would have made you as great and as loved as my sister."

"Queen Rowan is a rather hard figure to live up to, Teagan." The Warden's smile was genuine, but did not quite reach her eyes. "And I pity the lady who must attempt to embody Rowan's strength and Anora's cunning. I am a bit relieved that the burden does not fall on me."

"The woman that Alistair chooses to be queen _will _have to live in your shadow," reminded Teagan with a quick tap to her knuckles. "It is too late to hide what passed between you two, but I was…so certain that he would not have rejected you." He sighed. "I'm sorry, I am sure you don't want to be discussing this with me. Losing someone you love is painful."

"Ah. Well," the Warden coughed, clearing her throat and averting her eyes to her lap, "many things have passed between Alistair and I, the least of which being rejection."

"Am I mistaken in my assumption that the argument the servants overhead in the Denerim estate was your bid to be queen?" asked Teagan softly, his pale eyes reflecting the warmth of the fire.

"No. I never asked to be queen," Lady Grey said in a sharp voice, causing Teagan to recall his hand back as if he'd been touching flames. "That discussion was something different entirely."

"I'm sorry," Teagan gave a sad smile, "I shouldn't have pried. I was just curious. Perhaps…" He shook his head. "'Too curious for my own good,' that's what Eamon always used to tell me."

"Don't trouble yourself about it," said Lady Grey, waving her hand as if to shoo the topic away. "Ferelden has a king and the Grey Wardens have a commander. Things have worked out well for everyone," she smiled.

"Is that what you intend to do? Be the Grey Warden commander?" Teagan tilted his head, regarding her with unspoken questions.

"Yes," was her simple response. She looked at him from below her long eyelashes, watching the Bann's face struggle to choose an emotion. He looked sad, pleased, and disturbed all at once. "Was there something else that you would suggest of me?"

He shook his head. "No. I had hoped that you might stay here in Denerim, lend your voice at the court maybe. Maker knows we could use someone like you."

The Warden grinned. "How could _I _have a voice at court when I'm _banned _from it for troublemaking?"

"I…well, that is actually a very good point," a slow smile spread across Teagan's face, "though I think if you chose to remain here, such a thing could be revoked."

"Assuming I even have any inclination for politics." Seeing Teagan open his mouth to reply, the Warden raised a hand and shook her head. "Which I don't. I've no head for it…and as you can well see," she said dryly, "my opponents don't either."

"My lady, I don't think I can forgive you for that terrible jest."

"Could you try?" the Warden batted her eyes. "Please?"

"For you, I _suppose_," replied Teagan with some feigned reluctance, which earned him a friendly slap on his leg from the Lady. "Though let's not talk anymore of politics and the Landsmeet. I have stories to tell you, don't I?"

Lady Grey raised an eyebrow. "Stories? What types of stories?"

"The ones that Eamon was going to tell you. I figure they would be less amusing and incriminating if I told them to you myself. Perhaps you will return the favor and regale me a tale or two of your own when I am done?" Teagan grinned. "If that is all right with you?"

"I think I could tell an amusing story or two," said the Warden with a sly expression. "But you first."

The Warden and the Bann of Rainesfere swapped stories for the better part of the afternoon, laughing merrily and enjoying each other's company. They chattered, chuckled and cajoled one another as the fire in the hearth grew dim and the sun began to set. It was with much reluctance that the Warden eventually took her leave of Teagan to return back to the castle, declining his offer of dinner in favor of an evening's solitude.

Teagan had kissed both her cheeks before she left, and as she rode back to the castle the Warden could still feel the tickle of his beard on her skin and smell the oil he used to groom with. The sensations lingered with her all the way to her chambers and readied her for Elissa's debriefing once the door swung open.

It did _not _ready her for the sight of Zevran sprawled across her bed, dressed in a loose shirt and tight trousers, both in the dark green he had acquired a liking for from the Dalish. Leliana was curled up in the pillows by his head; her red hair was bound up in a braid and speckled with yellow flowers that matched her pale dress. Oghren sat sprawled out in a chair using Dane as a footrest, wearing brown leathers and thick boots as though he expected trouble. It was…wonderful. "You…" her mouth struggled to form words. "You're _here!_"

Zevran, who had his arms behind his head, opened a lazy eye to stare at her. "Of course we are. When you are summoned by the king, you do not ignore the invitation. At least, not in Antiva you don't."

"Alistair came to get us today. It was quite wonderful; he sent a carriage out." Leliana patted a vacant spot on the bed by her knees and the curve of Zevran's waist. "The palace is so surprising! It is in much better condition than I thought. There doesn't seem to be much damage by the Darkspawn at all."

"It's not very impressive as far as castles go," Oghren grumbled, Dane echoing the sound at his feet. "Ale only at meal times? Servants are for looking, not touching? Bah. Makes me _almost _miss Orzammar."

"Admit it, Oghren, you like it here," the Warden winked at him as she settled herself where Leliana had gestured, kicking off her boots like the other two on her bed had done. "Nice warm bed, roof over your head, no Darkspawn lurking about…"

"That's what I miss!" Oghren sighed. "All the sodding fighting and the excitement…"

"You don't mean that," chided Leliana. "Things are good here. There can be peace now. Alistair offered you a great chance."

The dwarf sighed again. "The only piece I want is Felsi. How much longer are we going to stay here?"

"Well…" the Warden folded her hands in her lap and regarded her companions. "I, and Loghain for that matter, will have to leave Denerim sometime soon to oversee Amaranthine. You are all welcome to join, of course, but you don't have to." She smiled ruefully. "I know you have your own goals and had your own ambitions before I interrupted them."

Leliana turned soulful eyes to Oghren. "I think you should consider Alistair's offer. It would do great things for Ferelden's relationship with Orzammar, and you could be with Felsi. Don't you know," she smiled impishly, her cheeks puffing out, "women love men in uniforms."

"Oghren? In a _uniform_?" The Warden raised an eyebrow. "What is this that I have missed?"

"Alistair wanted to make Oghren a general in the Ferelden army. I don't know if it was a wise decision," commented Zevran, "since Oghren has such a…short…temper."

"Come over here and say that, elf. Oghren will make a proper woman out of you yet!" Oghren patted his knee, grinning wickedly.

"Oh goodness, they are flirting again, Leliana. Perhaps we should leave them be?" The Warden waggled her eyebrows.

"You should have heard some of the discussions they had earlier," the Orlesian cast a sly glance at the seemingly serene assassin. "It would have made you blush."

The Warden ducked her head, chuckling. "Everything they say makes me blush!"

"And you don't just blush on your cheeks, do you? Ehehe, yeah." Oghren bobbed his head up and down. "It goes all the way down."

"It is true, for I have seen it." Zevran smirked but did not move, his eyes dutifully closed. "A marvelous pink."

Lady Grey slapped his stomach in playful reproach. "Teasing me isn't nice."

"Nice? Nice? When did I ever say I was nice?" Zevran pushed himself onto his elbows and stared at her in his catlike manner. "I believe I have only ever called myself handsome and charming. Maybe I said I was 'nice' looking?"

"You are a terrible tart, Zevran, and a coward to boot." The Lady raised a challenging eyebrow. "You ran from a pair of gorgeous twins."

Oghren and Leliana both gave a collective gasp, staring at the openly promiscuous assassin with surprise.

"And you have something to give me from them, no?" the Antivan smirked.

"If you don't plan on seeing their special, private performance, then no, I have nothing to give you." The Warden winked.

"Who was he running from?" asked Leliana

"No one of real importance; just a pair of highborn ladies." The Warden slapped Zevran on the stomach again, her fingers coming into contact with the contours of his muscles through the thin shirt. "And this one here left me at their mercy."

Zevran caught her hand, trapping it to his body. "It is only too bad that they did not give you a private audience of your own. I would have enjoyed that show."

"There's only one woman for me," Lady Grey put her free hand to her heart. "And that is my Orlesian songbird."

Leliana chuckled and squeezed her knee. "You are in the wrong business. You would have made a very convincing bard."

"Are you two going to keep talking, or are you going to get naked and let out that frustration?" asked Oghren with eyebrow waggling of his own. "The wait has been damn near killing me."

"Do you think Felsi would approve?" Leliana wagged her finger at him. "You are not going to get off to a very good start with her if you can't keep your mind focused on her."

"Maybe the uniform will help with that," suggested the Warden. "As you said, women love men in uniforms. The cloak and armor they issue you as a General are magnificent."

"I said I'd think about it," Oghren folded his arms across his chest. "But I haven't made up my mind. Sounds good though. Being a general beats the hell out of being nothing."

"Indeed. You'll have something to offer Felsi. You'll have prospects. Instead of just being a dwarf who lives on the surface, maybe peddling wears or crafting armor, you're the commander of an army." The Warden smiled, "granted, the pay may not be the best, but the position is solid and you could do far worse if you wanted to maintain a lifestyle of war. You could be stuck following me, for instance!"

"But it's a damn good view from the rear, following you," Oghren grinned. "But eh, I'll keep giving it some thought. Having something to impress Felsi and offer her a good life is my priority now. Whether that's leading some sodding army or dying of boredom in a stall, I haven't decided."

Lady Grey nodded. "Well, there is no hurry. I am glad you are considering it though."

Oghren gave a dismissive shrug and plucked out the flask that hung on his hip, taking a long drink of it and belching loudly once he'd finished.

"Oh, Leliana," the Warden peered into the Orlesian's gentle face, "Zevran mentioned that Sten left something for you with me. Do you have it?"

"Oh! I brought it with me, yes, just a moment." Leliana slipped a hand into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a scroll of paper tied up with a small, blue ribbon. "He didn't say anything to me except, 'Give this to her.'" She handed the delicate scroll to the Warden. "He had this look in his eye though, like he knew you were going to awaken even if we didn't."

The Warden frowned as she observed the neatly rolled parchment. The ribbon was a curious touch from Sten, but she knew it was from him as the bow was a complex geometric pattern that she'd seen on Asala's pommel. "I loathe unwrapping this." But she did. With delicate fingers, she pulled each end of the ribbon until the elegant bow was nothing more than a loose, limp line. Slowly she peeled the scroll open. Zevran perked up and rested his chin on her shoulder, murmuring in surprise at what he saw.

"Leliana," asked the Warden, "do you happen to read Qunari?" Sten had rarely spoken during their journey, but when he did he stuck mostly to Common. His use of Qunari words were never explained and often times it was hard to ascertain their meaning since Sten's terse responses rarely provided enough context. As for use of the Qunari's written form, the Warden had never seen any examples of it. She was pleased, however, that her first experience with it was in the form of a gift.

"I know a few words, but it is very complex and I have not had much time to study it." The bard leaned forward and looked down at the scroll with critical eyes. "Oh! But that is easy. This word I know." She pointed at Sten's elegant calligraphy, not needing to voice her surprise that Sten's large hands could manage such a beautiful and delicate task.

Lady Grey raised her eyes to Leliana. "What does it mean?"

The bard's smile was gentle. "_Kadan._"

"_Kadan_?" The Warden frowned. "I have never heard Sten use that word before."

"'Friend,' Aurora." Leliana said softly, "it means friend."

* * *

_Goodness me, but that chapter took longer to write than I wanted. I really have to start picking up the pace and get out of Denerim, heh, as all the good stuff happens outside of the city. No matter. We'll get there when we get there, though hopefully "there" is within 2-3 chapters since I don't want to bore you with unneeded exposition. We just need to get those pesky mages and Orlesian Wardens out of the way first! _

_Much love goes out to my ultra busy beta, Lady Winde, and I hope she gets her derriere in motion and finds the time to write up another chapter of, "A Lady and her Gentleman," or at the very least draw me more pictures. Do you hear that, my pretty? I want more art and I want it now! *cracks the whip* Empress Celene was not enough! _

_And again, thank you everyone for the kind reviews - the quality of them is wonderful and more than I could hope for. (I always try and respond to everyone who reviews, though if you review anonymously I can't. :( )Telling me what you liked and what worked is helpful... And telling me what you didn't like and what didn't work is too!_


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The Grey Wardens came with the rain.

From their vantage point in one of the castle's many towers, the Warden and Loghain could see the Orlesians approach through the watery sheets. They came on horseback, fully armored, with the Grey Warden standard raised high in the air.

"Do you think this is what they looked like in times of old?" asked the Warden of Loghain, leaning on her hands as she peered out the open window. The wind and rain whistled past her face, splashing against her cheeks and chilling her skin. "Grey horses, grey armor, banners raised high to part the rain?"

"They're Orlesians," replied Loghain as he came to stand behind her, "they take any excuse to show off. This is just fanfare." The wind tugged at the braids at his temple and reminded him of the dangers of Ferelden's inclement weather. His brow furrowed, "Don't stand there mesmerized. You'll catch a cold." He put a fatherly hand on her shoulder, feeling the gentle shivering of her body in the cool air.

"You're right." The Warden reached forward and pulled the thick shutters closed over the window, locking out the storm. She chuckled and wiped the rain away from her face with her hands. She ran her fingers over her eyebrows to push out the water droplets and then caught them with the edge of her sleeve. "Was there much fanfare during the War?" She looked at Loghain expectantly over her shoulder.

"Of course there was." He looked sidelong at her. "Entire legions of chevaliers in their finest armor would line up before each battle, each one carrying their family's crest and the Chantry's blessing on the edges of their lances."

The Warden grinned. "Explain no further. Finely organized ranks and shining armor is no match for a cleverly placed _cheval de frise_. Or ten."

Loghain nodded in approval. "You've got a head on your shoulders; but then I'm sure Bryce would never have let you be ignorant of the means that brought you freedom."

"I had an excellent tutor, yes, though I don't think he would have called me a good student." The Warden patted the hand on her shoulder. "Please don't try and quiz me on the finer points of history and warfare."

"The journey to Amaranthine will not be short," Loghain smirked. "What else would you have us discuss?"

"Well, if you corner me about famous battles, then I'm going to harass you about court fashions." She winked.

Loghain seemed unperturbed by the suggestion and his eyebrows rose in amusement. "In case you think I'm a poor student of fashion and culture, I'd like to say in my defense that I don't have servants to dress me each morning and I have a daughter your age."

"Dress yourself? _Dress _yourself?" The Warden took a few steps back and gestured at his torso with her hand. "Armor is not considered dressing yourself! Especially not since it _already _comes in coordinated pieces."

"It's what's under the armor that counts," grumbled the former Teyrn, crossing his arms over his chest with the clattering of finely hammered iron.

"If you say so," Lady Grey raised an eyebrow in challenge. "You can't live in it, you know. One day you'll have to take it off and fear my mockery for your color choices."

"Your mockery is probably the last thing about you that a man should possibly fear." Loghain strode past her towards the door, his shoulder grazing her chest and halting his steps momentarily. (The Lady didn't appear to have taken any offense or notice of it, much to his relief.) "This is why I suggest you use your talents and put the fear of the Maker into your Orlesian counterparts." He crossed through the threshold and beckoned her to follow him.

"Oh?" the Warden stepped quickly to match his pace, dogging Loghain's heels as he weaved his way down the tower's winding steps. "What talents exactly? What do you know that I don't?"

"You are the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden now," said Loghain softly, as if the walls might hear or the wind might bring his words to the other Grey Wardens. "I may not have had much respect for the Grey Wardens in the past, but you are our link in their chain of command. It would be a pity if Ferelden was to lose that, especially to Orlesian greed. As I understand it, the Orlesian Grey Wardens already watch a great deal of land. I have no doubt that they would use an opportunity of supplanting you as a way to get a foothold in our country."

The Lady put her hands on his shoulders and squeezed them gently as they descended in protest of his words. "I do not think that any Grey Warden wishes to be tasked with the challenge of running the defenses of two nations. One is hard enough as it is, two would make living unbearable."

Loghain shrugged off her hands. "Perhaps that rings only true for you. Some individuals thrive on power. It doesn't matter if it is one, two, or ten nations. They always hunger for something more."

"They said the same things about you, you know." The Lady returned her hands to his frame. "'Loghain Mac Tir has gone mad with power. He can never have enough of it. He probably wants to rule Orlais as well as Ferelden.'" She chuckled darkly, leaning close to his ear. "Appearances are deceiving. You do not seem the type to desire power beyond your control."

"I wouldn't have minded ruling Orlais," Loghain's lips tugged up into a small smile, though he knew that the woman behind him couldn't see it. "It would have been ironic, if not justified, though Maric would have ruled Orlais better than I. And take your hands off me, girl. I'm not a horse to be ridden."

The Grey Warden's responding laughter echoed down the stairs in front of them. "If we were not on a staircase and at the risk of tripping, you would be regretting those words!"

"These old bones can hardly support my armor _and_ your weight." Loghain's greaves squeaked in agreement as he continued down the staircase. "So don't even try it, unless you plan to drag me to Amaranthine slung over the back of a horse."

"Are you calling me _fat_?" asked the Warden incredulously, halting in her tracks.

"What? No!" Loghain looked over his shoulder at her, her hands on her hips and scowling at him. "Maker's breath, tell me now, are you going to be this sensitive all of the time?"

"Maybe," she said quietly.

Loghain sighed. "Maker help me," he muttered, stepping up to meet her eyes. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. "I forget that age hasn't yet beaten out your desires to be attractive...and apparently warfare hasn't either."

"I suppose not." She frowned, drumming her fingers and pursing her lips. "You truly don't think I'm fat?"

"No, I don't. I think you're…" Loghain paused, considering his words carefully. He'd gone through this stage of insecurity with Anora. The Warden was a lot like his daughter in many respects: resolute, fearless, and brutally smart. She would appreciate his honesty, which worked in his favor since she was quite pretty. He looked over her features, and then down her frame, following the sharp cinch of her waist to the wide taper of her hips where it appeared her greatest concerns lay. "I think you're a lovely young woman. It _is_ true: you are no delicate flower on the vine, but I think I would like you less if you were. I have always preferred wild roses to domesticated ones."

She smiled wanly and let her hands drop from her hips. "Thank you. And I am…really sorry about that. I suppose I've been bottling that up since…well, since mother's last salon. Lady Terlinda. What a…what a hag."

Loghain echoed her smile. "I think I can forgive you that small lapse. I can imagine you haven't had much time to grieve or consider your new circumstances. The loss has been far greater on your end than mine. Do me one small favor though?"

"What would you have me do?"

"Don't listen to Lady Terlinda in the future." He patted her shoulder once more before turning back down the stairs. "Her notions of beauty are not healthy. She told Anora once to tighten her corset so she'd eat less."

"…What?" the Warden skipped down the steps behind him.

"That was my response exactly," replied the former Teyrn mildly. "Suffice to say, it is never a good idea to insult the Queen's weight. Lady Terlinda has never been to a royal salon since."

"Unfortunately, her husband is one of my father's Banns. No," the Warden shook her head, "one of Fergus's Banns now." She placed a palm to her forehead. "I am all backwards today. This does not bode well for us."

"Here," they were at the bottom of the stairs by this time and Loghain pulled her off to the side of the door leading out. He settled her back against the wall, leaning on his shoulder next to her. "You've got some time to collect your thoughts." He crossed his arms, watching her pinch the bridge of her nose between long, slim fingers.

In the shared silence, they could hear the wind howling outside against the stone walls above them and the clattering of rain on the distant panes. It was difficult for the Warden not to be some what spellbound by the arrival of her foreign fellows. While Loghain was spurring all notions of the nostalgic glory days of the Grey Wardens, the weather and the very presence of the Wardens rekindled a few of those dreamy, childhood flames. Those in turn brought forth memories of her childhood and Alistair's youthful enthusiasm. Together, it was enough to make anyone's head spin.

But she knew what she had to focus on: the Blight. That was all the Grey Wardens were going to be interested in.

"All right," the Warden said after a few moments, scrubbing her face with her hands. "I think we'll be all right."

"Are you nervous?" asked the former Teyrn quietly.

"No." The Warden shook her head. "Not at all."

"Good."

Loghain led them to the throne room, waving his way through the castle corridors all too well. He looked over his shoulder at her now and then to make sure that the Lady was keeping up. Her brows were furrowed in thought each time he checked on her.

They emerged through a door hidden behind a tapestry at the back of the throne. "There's the Princeling," said Loghain, pointing his finger at the approaching figure of Alistair. He allowed his fellow Grey Warden to pull him down the dais, just to the left of the throne.

The king neither waved nor smiled to acknowledge them. Instead, Alistair gave a weary shrug of his shoulders before settling himself and his troubles on the throne. His golden armor had been well polished, and he was now wearing a bright blue cloak trimmed in black fur as opposed to his usual red. He was also, surprisingly, sporting the well-groomed shadow of a beard. It made Alistair look older and wiser.

"Is there a time estimate on their arrival?" asked the Warden, eyeing Alistair's stubble with curiosity. He was quickly shaking off the image of being a youthful monarch, and she wondered if perhaps Eamon had suggested the change in grooming.

"Last I heard they were passing through the market district." Alistair sighed. "They kept being held up by random citizens with questions, so, I don't know."

"Assuming they don't stop questions, it will take them ten minutes to get to the castle from the market district," supplied Loghain. Of course Loghain knew how this process worked; he'd only helped steward the castle and parlay with visitors since Maric had been king. "We'll then have to wait for however long the Captain of the Guard feels is necessary to question them and assess how much of a risk they are. He may take longer than needed if they refuse to give up their weapons."

The King made a loud groan. "And that gives us the amount of time I have to wait in uncomfortable silence with _you_? Peachy." Alistair made no attempt to hide his glower.

"Not that I am in any particular place to give orders here," said the Warden quietly, her eyes darting between Loghain's and Alistair's, "but you both need to be civil when the others arrive. It would reflect poorly on us all if they saw any…squabbling."

A faint smile played on Loghain's lips. "You have my word, Madam, that I'll not provoke the Princeling provided he leaves my head on my shoulders and removes his gaze from throat."

"There are far better deaths for you than a quick beheading," growled Alistair, his fingers gripping the wood, "but thankfully, I'm not _you. _I don't just remove people because they disagree with me, or I don't like them."

The Warden raised an eyebrow in surprise. Alistair _had_ apparently listened to her.

"You'd probably be a lot happier if you did," replied Loghain after some moments of thought. He politely inclined his head to his commander. "Are you sure that I'm really necessary?"

"Yes. You are necessary. Hopefully," the Warden smiled and clapped Loghain's back, "they'll focus on you rather than on Alistair and me!"

"Did Isolde make any specific mention of the Wardens in her letter?" Alistair asked Lady Grey, placing an elbow on his knee as he leaned forward.

Isolde had written a letter and sent it with her fastest courier to Denerim when the Grey Wardens had arrived in Redcliffe. It was placed in the Warden's hand a week prior, and while she knew that Isolde had meant no insult to Alistair in her choice of recipient, Alistair's feelings had been hurt. It was a curious display of contradiction. Why would Alistair expect a letter to be addressed to him about Grey Warden business, when most of the kingdom had already heard the news that he'd renounced them entirely?

The Warden furrowed her brow in thought as she tried to recall the letter's contents. "No, I don't think she did. She mentioned that they were just passing through and making haste."

"And they're from Orlais," Alistair chewed on his lip as he considered the other Grey Wardens he'd met in the past. Truthfully, there hadn't been all _that _many. "I wonder…maybe is it Emeline? Or maybe it's Serge. Hmm."

"Were they at least friendly?" The Warden ran her hands down the front of her tunic, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the finely brocaded shirt. Her hands lingered longer than perhaps necessary at her hips.

"If they want something, most certainly," Loghain commented dryly from beside her. "Just don't expect anything they say to come without some sort of hidden meaning or price. Be cautious."

Alistair made a noise of disapproval deep in his throat. "Andraste's flaming sword, she doesn't need you to tell her how to act."

Loghain regarded Alistair with thinly veiled disapproval. "It's a bit late to jump on your horse and start defending her, _Princeling_. Half the nobles and all the servants have already known that - "

The Warden held up a hand. "Maker's breath," she grumbled, "I appreciate the sentiments from both of you; truly, I do. I just need you both to work with each other. Do not use me as an excuse to come to blows."

Alistair looked as though he was biting his tongue with ferocious force, while Loghain stood impassively with his hands behind his back. They were certainly a contrast in the fiery passion of youth and the cool reservation of age.

After much length, Alistair finally spoke. "I didn't get to speak with many of the Orlesian commanders much. They respected Duncan, which was enough for me." Alistair's eyes lingered at the doors on the end of the hall. "Hopefully they will respect you too."

"Well, no guarantee of that," the Warden gave a small smile, tongue darting out to wet her lips in the process. "We'll just have to play this by ear. I'm sure they're civil."

Loghain looked like he wanted to disagree, but said nothing as the door to the far end of the throne room was opening.

The palace guards filtered in one by one, followed by a figure in polished grey armor. The guards took their positions along the walls while the Grey Warden moved to stand before Alistair.

Alistair and Loghain seemed unsurprised that the Grey Warden Commander from Orlais happened to be a woman, though it did come as a pleasant shock to Lady Grey. The Commander was tall, with a freckly, gaunt face and narrow features. She had a shocking mass of red curls that were barely constrained back into their tight bun and quick green eyes that seemed more to absorb than see.

"Greetings to you from Orlais, King Alistair," she said in her heavy Orlesian accent. "And from Weisshaupt as well."

"Welcome to Ferelden, Commander," replied Alistair neutrally, inclining his head to her. "I don't think we've met before…"

"Normally the Captain of the Guard would announce her to you," the former Teyrn narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, he was quite busy interrogating my tracker so I just entered when the doors were opened." The woman gave a charming smile. "I am Andraste, Second Warden of Val Royeaux."

"Oh," Alistair blinked in surprise. "Why would they send a Second here?"

"Why not?" Andraste shrugged. "Ferelden has experienced a most…peculiar Blight. It bears investigation."

"It seemed like a pretty standard enough Blight," replied Alistair neutrally. "The Darkspawn came up, the Archdemon emerged, and then the Archdemon was slain."

Andraste's flicked her eyes down Alistair's body appraisingly before speaking. "You are a handsome king, Alistair, and while you are not known for your intellect, you are known for your bravery and honesty."

Alistair blinked, frowned and spoke with some hesitation. "Thanks, I think?"

"You are welcome. But," The Orlesian wagged a finger at him, "that being said, I will find out if you're lying to me. And you do not want to lie to me."

"There's nothing to lie about." Alistair laid a level gaze on Andraste, "You have my word on that."

"Your word as what?" countered the redhead with a smirk, "as a King? Or as a Grey Warden?"

"As a king," answered Alistair, "I am a Grey Warden no longer."

"Is that so?" Andraste raised an eyebrow. "You and I will need to sit down, I think, before I make my report to Weisshaupt. One can not simply leave the Grey Wardens. You can not undo the Joining. You will still feel the Call."

Alistair's stare hardened. "I am a king; I have a political affiliation now."

"Pfft." Andraste waved her hand in the air dismissively. "You could have been a Grey Warden king. Weisshaupt would not have objected. But you say you are a former Grey Warden now, and are therefore a _former_ Grey Warden king. I think I already know what Weisshaupt will say to that."

"There's not really much to discuss about the matter," Alistair said with finality. "I have made my choice and they can't and won't change it."

"So you say now. We _will _discuss this later," Andraste's eyes darted to the two silent Wardens, "in _private._" She settled her gaze on Loghain. "And what interesting company we keep. Loghain Mac Tir, we have heard of you."

"Oh have you, Madam?" replied Loghain with boredom.

"Yes." Andraste put a hand to her forehead. "My father was the Chevalier Commander at the Battle of the River Dane. You…you wear his armor."

This wiped all expression off Loghain's face.

Andraste laughed at this, holding her cheeks as she doubled forward. "Oh! Oh, I am _so _sorry. I am kidding, I am kidding. My father was never a chevalier, he was a baker. But your face…" she laughed a little longer. "Ah…your face."

The Warden frowned in displeasure. "That was a joke in poor taste."

"I know, but I could not help it; I had to see for myself." Andraste smiled, her full lips parting into a toothy grin. "We have so many stories of Loghain Mac Tir and his friends King Maric and Queen Rowan. Fearless defenders. Valiant knights. Clever enemies. Orlais sings of its victories as well as its defeats. We do not defile and damn our losses."

Lady Grey shook her head. "Might we just keep politics out of this, shall we?"

Andraste shrugged. "We will see…we will see. But you…you are the one who dealt the final blow. You are the 'One Who Lived.' Lady Cousland, Commander of this region now rumor has it, aren't you?"

"Yes." The Lady nodded. "I am."

"How strange that in all the Blights before you, no one has lived after slaying the Archdemon." Andraste laid a thoughtful finger to her narrow chin. "How very, very strange."

"I thought it was too," said the Lady quietly, "I didn't expect to wake up at all."

Andraste came close to the other woman and placed a consoling hand on her arm. (Loghain took a few steps back so that she didn't invade his personal space.) "My dear, you must feel terrible."

The Warden blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"You are alive." Andraste looked at her as though she should have known this already. "The Archdemon can not be dead."

"Well, it can not be alive. It didn't take over the body of any other Darkspawn that is for certain," explained Lady Grey, her voice calm.

"Are you sure?" asked Andraste. "Were you able to look around and see?"

The Warden shook her head. "No, but I trust those who were there at the battle. They saw nothing out of the ordinary once I passed."

"How do they have any way of knowing? Are they Grey Wardens? Do they _Sense_ as you and I and him?" Andraste canted her head at Loghain. "And I suppose him too," she leaned towards Alistair.

The Warden sighed. "I have no other way of knowing except for the reports of those who were there. I severed the head from that beast and was near death for three weeks. I would like to think that if I had made no impact on the Archdemon's life, that I would have been healthy and whole for that amount of time."

Andraste's voice was low, "you make dangerous assumptions that our children's children may have to pay for."

"I firmly believe that the Archdemon was defeated and no longer exists amongst the Darkspawn." The Warden's grey eyes were firm and unyielding, meaning every carefully chosen word.

"Will you swear on that?" Andraste's eyes were just as firm. "Will you swear an oath to me that what you say is true?"

"What nonsense is this?" Loghain pushed himself between the two women, Lady Grey at his back and Andraste at his front. "Why does she have to swear an oath? She defeated the damn dragon; it wasn't as though she had any plans of living through it. She was quite ready to give her life."

"It'll be all right, Loghain. I have no qualms in swearing her oath," the Warden laid her hand on his shoulder, stepping past him towards Andraste. She tilted her chin upwards as she regarded the other woman. "I stand by what I've said here. The Archdemon doesn't exist amongst the Darkspawn any longer."

"For someone in no position to be certain, you are _very _sure of what you say," said Andraste softly. "And very young, too. That no doubt helps you maintain the strength of your convictions." She puckered her lips in thought.

The Warden raised a hand in protest. "Please, let my actions speak for me, not my age. It is only fair." She felt Loghain place a hand of approval between her shoulder blades. He had likely nodded at everything she'd said.

"Fair enough," Andraste turned from the two. "I will take your word on this, for now. But I will investigate this matter further myself. If I find any trace of the Archdemon…." She looked over her shoulder at Lady Grey, "you will be the first to know."

"So you will be staying in Ferelden for a long while, I take it?" asked Alistair, making himself known again.

"My companions and I will be here for however long it takes," replied Andraste curtly. "With the Maker's blessing, we will discover nothing and return to Orlais within the year."

"You are welcome to stay at Amaranthine while you are investigating the matter," offered the Warden. "Loghain and I will be establishing our new home at Vigil's Keep."

"I may visit with you in the future. Though," Andraste's smile was grim, "I would suggest you pay a visit to the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt or at the very least Val Royeaux. They will want to speak with you personally."

The Warden nodded. "We will make our way there eventually."

"Understandable. Don't delay the visit, however." The elder Grey Warden approached Alistair. "Now, King Alistair, might you and I have a few moments alone together? There are a few pressing questions that I must ask you."

Alistair nodded. "Of course. Aurora, Loghain, you're both free to go."

The Warden sketched a small bow in Alistair's direction, following Loghain's already considerable lead to one of the side doors. He held the door for her, closing it behind them as she passed. When she turned to look at him, she found him grinning from ear to ear. "What are you smiling about, Loghain?"

"I am amused. Apparently, Alistair has a doomed existence," he chuckled. "He is fated to be cowed by every female Grey Warden he encounters."

"You are a cruel, cruel man." But the Warden couldn't help but share in his joke.

"It's true. Andraste is a man eater." Loghain ushered her down the hallway. "You can tell by the way she looks at you. She had absolutely no interest in you beyond her duty, though Alistair was a different matter entirely."

"Well, she isn't our problem at the moment." The Warden looked at her companion out of the corner of her eye. "Well, not mine anyway. If what you said is true, she liked you. She's your problem."

"Yes, it appears I am also doomed to be cowed by every female Grey Warden I meet." He returned her look. "What a terrible pity."

"Oh, thank you by the way." The Warden turned to face him, her hands folded earnestly before her.

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For coming to my defense against both Alistair and Andraste. It is nice to know that someone's with me." The Lady's smile was embarrassed but pleased.

"Next to Anora, you're about the only ally that I have left," Loghain stared at her face, his own tinged with sadness. "Contrary to what most people believe, I do try and protect my allies."

The Warden nodded her head. "I know."

Being Loghain must have been a very lonely business, as he was still working to redeem himself in the public's eye. Still, though she wanted to take his words at face value, the Warden could not forget that this was the man who had conspired with her family's murderer. She would keep him close, if only to protect herself. He was not her Brother yet.

* * *

_It is amazing how much writing you can get done during the Super Bowl! The delay between chapters is regrettable, but real life has been incredibly busy and is only about to get busier. That being said, we're almost out of the city! Hurrah!_


	12. Interlude III

**Interlude III: Ostagar**

_Her first night in Ostagar was turning out to be terrible._

_Exhausted from the road and her own troubles, the Lady had been looking forward to finding a dark place to hide away from prying eyes. On the road, she had suffered the pitying glances of Duncan and the gentle, if not fatherly, way that he had herded her along the road like a lost lamb. Each step of the way she had taken solace in the thought that Fergus and Ostagar would keep her busy; would allow her to build a mask and shield away the pain._

_And for a while, she had been able to lose herself in the clattering of swords and shouting of soldiers. Everything was new and fascinating and she could push the nagging grief away. But as it got darker, the crowds had thinned, and she found out her brother was completely unavailable. The mask she wore began to crack. All she wanted to do in the dying bustle was crawl away into the rocks like a spider hiding from the sun._

_That was not to be, as nightfall had brought on cold rain. The opportunity for solace was lost when she was again found by Duncan, who led her back to the Grey Warden tent. Everyone was forced inside for the night; even the mages had abandoned their chanting for the comfort of warm, dry clothing._

_So there she sat: a thin sheet of tarp between her and the rain and the chattering of fellow would-be and full-fledged Grey Wardens in the background._

_All they wanted to do was talk. With the exclusion of Duncan, who was trying to pen a missive in the faint light of a candle, the other three were carrying on a discussion about food. Or maybe it wasn't food; maybe it was a metaphor for sex. Fergus had always warned her that soldiers talked of it and desired it at all costs. Truthfully, the Lady was not paying close enough attention to her companions to really glean the meaning of their words. They drifted in and out of her consciousness as she absently stroked Dane, her arms wrapped around the Mabari's thick neck. Her mind was many miles away along the grey coast of her home, drifting back to Ostagar like the changing of tides._

_"Duncan, you __sure__ she's not mute?"_

_Apparently, word had gotten around that she hadn't said a single thing to Duncan since leaving Highever. Mostly it was out of spite, since the Lady had not wanted to leave her home or join the Grey Wardens. She had bitten her tongue and resolved not to speak to anyone unless she absolutely __had __to; since her voice was the only thing left she had absolute control over. Her body and her skills were soon to be tools of the Grey Wardens, but they couldn't __make__ her speak to them. Perhaps if they didn't like her, they'd let her leave._

_But Duncan had been unperturbed at her silence, and even perhaps had known what it stemmed from (For example, the man had left her alone with King Cailan, making an excuse about needing to see to other business, and in his absence the Lady had been allowed to pour out her troubles to her friendly sovereign.) and so he had ushered her along the road to Ostagar with a gentle hand on her lower back. He had not tried to ask her many questions, though he had doubtlessly made many assumptions._

_"I haven't heard her speak not a word yet! She just __looks. __Though I guess that can't be all bad. Some ladies don't have a sense when to stop their chirpin.'"_

_"Daveth, have some respect," scolded Duncan with a frown. The senior Grey Warden returned back to his letter, eyes squinting in the gloom at the parchment as he plucked at his beard in thought._

_Having washed ashore at this point in the conversation, her eyes darted to the thin, rakish fellow that she'd had the misfortune of meeting first. She had come upon him quite by accident, though it was more appropriate to say that he had found her. Perusing the quartermaster's wares, he'd stepped in front of her and looked her up and down. He'd eyed her matted curls and fine looks like wolves examine sheep, and assumed she was "lost" and wanted to be "found." His talk had mostly been innocuous and would probably have worked on another maiden._

_Women in dirty, seemingly ill-fitting armor, who were road worn, alone and young likely __did __want to be found. One prince was as good as another when you were on the run and on your own. But she was not that type of girl. The Lady was good with a blade and could likely have taken care of him if the quartermaster hadn't run him off first. However, she did not have the skills of someone like Duncan and secretly thanked the Maker that the old Grey Warden was an "honorable" man and had not taken advantage of her in the woods._

_"Maybe if you were nicer, Daveth," Ser Jory said quietly, looking up from polishing his greatsword, "she'd feel more comfortable."_

_Alistair shook his head and chuckled. "What is she, invisible? Yes, yes, let's continue to talk about her as if she wasn't even here. My, that's a __wonderful __way to make someone feel right at home. Gives my chest a nice feeling so full of warmth and cheer!"_

_"Ah I don't wanna hear it, you're doing it too you know," Daveth pointed at Alistair, who rolled his eyes in retaliation. "Fine, fine." He turned his attention to the Lady. "I'm sorry if you think I've been mean."_

_The Lady blinked at him, her face impassive. Dane grunted something at him and was rewarded with a pat on his head for his thoughtfulness._

_"Can you translate Mabari, Jory?" asked Daveth._

_"Don't be a fool. Mabari don't talk," Alistair puckered his lips at the dog, "You handsome, handsome puppy doggy, you don't talk, do you?"_

_This time Dane gave a full fledged bark rather than his usual laborious snuffling. He received a tickle to his chin from the Lady's gloved hand, which sent one of his hind legs pawing at the dirt in pleasure._

_"I think he said you're ugly, Alistair," Daveth grinned._

_"More like you're ugly __and __annoying," replied Alistair._

_Dane barked, tongue rolling out of his mouth. Yes, obviously he agreed._

_"I think he likes me more than you," Alistair was grinning from ear to ear._

_Daveth narrowed his eyes at the Mabari. "How do you even know it's a he? Maybe it's a she. Maybe she fancies you, Alistair."_

_Alistair laughed loudly, ducking his head in what appeared to be embarrassment. "What can I say? My charming and captivating good looks and contagious humor are irresistible to not only humans, but Mabari too. I wonder what the Chantry has to say about__ that.__"_

_The Lady sighed into the top of Dane's head; they were going to talk about sex now._

_"I hate to interrupt," said Duncan softly, "but I need one of you to deliver a letter to Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir."_

_At the mention of the name, the Lady stood immediately, straightening to her full height with the rustling and scraping of chain against leather. The motion caused the armor to pinch awkwardly at her hips and the back of her arms, but she was already moving forward to take the task. She knew Loghain Mac Tir, perhaps not all that well, but she knew him better than King Cailan. He had spoken often with her father, had fought beside him; was a hero. They had not seen each other for several years, but that did not stop the pangs of loneliness in her chest. If she could not have the closeness of Fergus, she could at least have the safety and comfort of a man who was an equal of her father._

_"Err…well, I would have but," Alistair shrugged and looked at the Lady, "seems she wants to do it."_

_Duncan drizzled some candle wax from his light onto the letter and then pressed the heavy, stone seal of the Grey Wardens into it. He passed the letter to her. "Keep that in the folds of your cloak. The Teyrn's tent is across the courtyard. It is bright blue and is opposite the King's red tent. You can't miss it."_

_The Lady nodded her head once before tucking the letter into the seamless pocket of her cloak. (She had discovered only too late on that fateful night that the cloak she'd chosen was without a hood.) She clucked her tongue at Dane, commanding him to stay, and ducked out of the tent and into the rain, shivering as the rain fell against her skin._

_As Duncan had said, the Teyrn's tent was on the other end of the courtyard and right next to the king's more elaborately decorated quarters. She could see it faintly in the light of the moon. It was not a far walk, but the rain was insistent and seeped through her cloak. It crept through the individual links of iron that composed her chest piece, and rolled between the seams in her leather to soak her shirt below. Already her hair pressed cold and wet against her scalp and she shivered despite herself. Her boots sucked against the muddy ground, but she moved with caution. She did not want to trip and suffer the anxiety of bathing sooner than she had to._

_She approached the tent, and saw the faint outline of a guard against the front of the Teyrn's tent flap. He was pressed tightly into the small, dry space provided by the tent's awning. He eyed her warily as she stepped closer, the tip of his spear pointing forward and catching the moon's light._

_The Lady briefly flashed the small, white letter with the Grey Warden's seal._

_The guard shrugged at her, ignoring the letter in her hand. "What do you want?" he asked, taking stock of her appearance._

_She showed him the letter again, this time letting it linger in the rain for a little longer. The edges of the parchment softened and wrinkled, the damage slowly spreading inwards. She waved it in the air in front of her face._

_"You've got a message?" the guard shifted his spear restlessly from had to hand, "whose it for?"_

_The Lady rolled her eyes and sighed. "The Teyrn. From the Grey Wardens." Her voice felt thick and low from disuse._

_"What was that? I couldn't hear you," the guard beckoned her closer with a tilt of his head._

_"May I speak with the Teyrn?" she said quietly, holding out the missive and entering into the shade of the awning with a few shuffled footprints._

_"No." The guard shoved her back out into the rain._

_The Lady stumbled back, shock on her face at the man's rudeness. "Why?" The question was louder than she had intended._

_"Because he doesn't want to be disturbed."_

_Her brow furrowed, the rain slipping between the creases in her eyebrows and sliding down her nose. "It __is __important," she said through gritted teeth._

_"The Teyrn __doesn't want__ to be disturbed."_

_"Is there some sort of trouble out here?"_

_The guard, startled, turned to face the Teyrn of Gwaren who was looming at the entrance to his tent. Loghain had one arm resting against the top of the tent flap and had the other on his hip._

_"Your Grace, one of the camp rats says she has a message to give you." The guard gestured to the sopping, bedraggled, would-be Warden._

_"…Camp…rat?" The Lady narrowed her eyes at the guard and shrieked in displeasure. "I am __not __here for anybody's personal pleasure!"_

_"No indeed. If my eyes and the rain aren't playing tricks on me, I'd say she fits the description of Duncan's newest Grey Warden recruit." Loghain stepped partly back into the shadow of the tent, lifting the flap out wide. "You can come in, my lady."_

_The Lady made a point of shoving the guard with her shoulder as she entered, jostling him out into the rain._

_The Teyrn's tent was surprisingly warm and dry despite the coldness outside. His furnishings were sparse: a simple cot, a table covered with documents, a roughly padded stool, and a few crates of various odds and ends. An armor stand stood by the cot, but it was obviously unused since the Teyrn was fully dressed for battle, sword strapped to his hip and all. Only his shield was left, and it was laid carefully on the cot._

_"You don't have to hover at the door," the Teyrn said with some amusement, gesturing for her to come in with a few crooks of his finger. "What's that message you've got there?"_

_"It's from Duncan." She held it out before him, an edge rubbing against his breastplate. She rued the fact that the missive was probably unreadable thanks to the water stains._

_Loghain looked at the letter, and then returned his eyes to her face. He tilted his head to one side, curiosity spreading across his features. "I know your face. We have met before." He stated it, he did not ask it._

_The Lady nodded in haste, unsure of what proper decorum dictated given the circumstances._

_"I've seen you at the Landsmeets." Loghain licked his lips in thought, trying to place the familiarity of the lady's high cheekbones, large eyes, and full lips. "You're Bryce Cousland's youngest, are you not? Aurora? What are you doing with the Grey Wardens all the way from Highever?"_

_"I'm not a Grey Warden yet," she said quietly, running chilly gloved hands over her equally chilly armor. "And it is not my desire to be away from Highever."_

_"You were not lured into the Grey Wardens by the old stories?" he raised a thick eyebrow at her._

_"No." She shook her head, sending a scattering of water droplets running down her scalp to her nose._

_"Good. Maybe there's hope for the Grey Wardens after all." The Teyrn smiled at her before turning his eyes to the water logged message. He took it from her hand, running his finger along the opening edge. "Besides, you're too pretty for the Grey Wardens," he said absently, breaking the griffin seal._

_"Thank you," the Lady colored a bit at the praise, and watched the Teyrn read, noticing the way his eyebrows knotted together to form an almost impenetrable line of black across his forehead. He did not seem particularly displeased at the letter's contents._

_"How is your father?" Loghain flicked his gaze up to hers as he asked the question before returning them to the message._

_"He's dead," she replied simply, feeling the strange, heavy sensation of grief swelling through her limbs._

_The hand holding the letter drooped and Loghain turned sympathetic eyes to her. "I…am sorry for your loss. It must be hard on your mother."_

_"She's dead too." The Lady's jaw clenched. "Castle Cousland is all dead except for me. And Fergus."_

_Loghain looked taken aback by the news, and it was several moments before he spoke. He likely understood the implications of what she meant, and therefore did not need the nuances explained to him. "I am…sure Cailan has the matter well in hand."_

_"He's promised me several hangings," she smiled grimly, full lips pulling back to reveal her pearly teeth. "Once the campaign is finished, of course," she clarified in softer tones, taming the bloodthirsty edge. She had never been prone to vengeful thoughts, though much had changed in the course of a few hours. There were many things she was discovering about herself._

_"That's…unusually grim of the boy." Loghain quickly folded Duncan's letter in half and slipped it into a thick journal that was lying on his desk._

_"No. It isn't. Not given the circumstances," she captured his wrist in a tight grip, drawing his attention back to her. "It is deserved and warranted."_

_Loghain closed in on her and returned the favor, using his free hand to grasp the one that had a hold on him. "You're shivering." He could sense how cold her gauntlets were against the leather where she gripped him, and he could see her teeth chattering against her lips. It struck him as odd that she was so sensitive to the weather, but when he considered her circumstances, he could see why she might be suffering as she was. She was in a great deal of emotional pain and still feeling the effects of shock. He'd seen the same expression on boys new to battle. There was one boy in particular she reminded him of: a wolfishly thin, gangly blond boy who had come stumbling through the woods after a very peculiar regicide..._

_The muscles of her arm tensed and the Teyrn snapped back into the present. "How long were you out in that rain for?"_

_"A few minutes." Her eyes dropped to his hand. "It is not a far walk from the Grey Warden's tent."_

_"Here," he released her and pulled away, reaching behind him for the thick shawl that hung over the stool at his desk. "My daughter made it for me as a parting gift for a successful campaign. The wool is quite finely spun, it should keep you warm."_

_"Thank you, Teyrn Loghain." The Lady was not familiar enough with him to drop his title, but she was comfortable enough to let him guard her. They had been introduced out of necessity when she was younger, but she had not made it a habit to keep company with older men of the court. All her life she had been shepherded and guarded by men such as him. While the problems with Orlais had made it necessary for her to learn how to fight, it also necessitated that she be shielded away from the wiles and whims of danger. But gone were those days where she had danced with younger men, gossiped with the daughters of the Banns and the Arls, and all but ignored their aging mothers and fathers._

_The Teyrn was not as close to her as kin. She could not simply trade him for her father. She could not make the same mistake again. The Howes had broken into the circle of her family, and she had trusted every member of the Amaranthine Arling implicitly up until their betrayal._

_The Lady shrugged off her cloak, letting it fall to the floor and took the shawl. She scrubbed her face and hair with it, pushing out the droplets of water that still clung to her eyelashes and eyebrows. For a clean, woolen shawl made by a woman, it smelled of armor grease._

_Loghain continued to look at her with the same expression he reserved for the battlefield. He eyed her critically, noting the strange contrast of her fine armor to her disheveled appearance. The rumors had said she was good with a blade, but he knew she was unprepared for the battle. She was unprepared __for this life. __No one was. "You were conscripted into the Wardens." Again, it was another statement, not a question._

_"Yes." She balled the shawl around her nose and mouth, leaving her eyes free to see the Teyrn's reaction._

_He seemed to be weighing her words heavily, for his face was set in grim lines. "The Rite of Conscription is mostly used as a last resort," Loghain pursed his lips. "At least as I understand it. Being here in Ostagar isn't your choice. So, tell me," he said in a low voice, "what was the price? Your life? How do you feel about being __bartered __into the Grey Wardens for it?" (A part of him expected better of Bryce Cousland than to use his daughter as a bargaining chip for his family's safety, but doubt was growing in Loghain's mind that he might not have willed the same thing of his own child if it meant she had a chance to live. Though from what he had heard and was seeing, the life of a Grey Warden was not really a life at all. The thought of Anora being conscripted unsettled him.)_

_"You ask many questions of me." She let the shawl slip away from her face and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was a feeble attempt to keep her warm against her cold leathers and chain mail, but it was an attempt nonetheless. "But I'm not feeling much of anything." Of course, it was a lie to save face. She was angry, frustrated and scared. "I…haven't had much time to think about it, and when I do, all I can think of is finding Fergus and making sure he's safe."_

_"Oh, that's right," Loghain turned from her and ran his hand along the map sprawled out across his planning table. "Your brother is here in Ostagar." He looked at her from over the top of his shoulder, a lock of his dark hair obscuring his eyes. "He's in the Wilds, scouting for Darkspawn. He left this morning. I'd advise you not to go after him. You'll have plenty of Darkspawn to fight in the upcoming battle; no need to go and find them yourself."_

_"It isn't Darkspawn or battle that I seek," she frowned, "it is my brother." Her finger dug into the wool. "Everything else can wait. I have to tell him that…" she chewed on her bottom lip. "I have to tell him that mother and father are dead, that he is Teyrn now."_

_"If he dies, that makes you Teyrna," Loghain dragged his finger between the small pin denoting Ostagar and another that marked the center of the Darkspawn mass. He felt rather than saw the path, since his eyes were otherwise occupied on the young woman in his tent. "If you wanted it."_

_"I do not." The Lady gave him a hard stare, her wet hair framing her face. The notion of ruling Highever in the shadow of the Cousland tragedy was not appealing. She did not want to be like queens in the legends of old, stalking the halls at night and chasing the ghosts of stillborn children, unfaithful husbands, and family members long since departed._

_"I suppose you couldn't anyway," Loghain sighed and looked back to the map. "Grey Wardens aren't allowed titles, are they? You renounce all familial bonds." He shook his head. "It doesn't seem right to renounce those you love. How can you claim to fight for anything if you have nothing? Grey Wardens have no country and no allegiance save themselves."_

_"I think you're asking the wrong person," the Lady found her features softening as she observed the Teyrn's mixture of disdain and confusion. He was obviously a man who had to fight for something. "But," she added, "those are my sentiments too. They may take away my family name, but I am still a servant of Ferelden."_

_"I'm convinced by your words; would that everyone had your patriotism." Loghain chuckled, and rapped his fingers on the desk as he mused. "I've seen grown men forget their allegiances and duty at the first sign of tragedy, but here you come, brave and true to your country with a loss far greater than many others." A quiet cough from the Lady brought him out of his thoughtful stupor. He turned back to her. "You should probably get back to Duncan. No doubt he's wondering where you are."_

_She wanted to protest, to beg to stay with him and enjoy the memories he evoked of her past, but the Teyrn thought her brave and so she had to be. She was a Cousland; she was resilient. "Probably. And no doubt you have many more things to attend to before you retire."_

_The Teyrn nodded. "Yes, there are still some plans to be drawn up." He grunted and gestured aimlessly to the map. "Though I'll probably change my mind in the morning and have to rethink my strategies. I prefer favorable outcomes."_

_"Yes, I remember," the Lady explained, "I overhead your discussion with the King when I first arrived this morning. You don't like the idea of the battle."_

_"I disagree with many of Cailan's contingency plans, it's true." Loghain grimaced. "Bring Orlesian Grey Wardens into Ferelden for a mere skirmish? We may as well just invite the Qunari to help us as well."_

_"That would be quite the force." The Lady's smile grew wider. "The Darkspawn would be wooed into fear by Qunari poetry and blinded by Orlesian fashion."_

_"And cut down by Ferelden swords," added Loghain pointedly._

_The Lady laughed, dropping her chin to her boots, her fingers kneading the soft wool. "I was getting there."_

_"I am sure you were." Loghain stroked his chin with his fingers as he regarded her. "Don't let any of your fellow Wardens push you around. You're better than they are."_

_"I had no intention of doing so," the Lady stooped to pick up her cloak. "And if they did, they would regret it."_

_"Do you think Duncan is going to have you fighting beside the others come the battle?" The Teyrn watched the younger woman slip Anora's shawl off her shoulders and refasten her wet cloak. "And you can keep the shawl. Just make sure you tuck it under your cloak when you walk back."_

_The Lady looked at the Teyrn with surprise. "Thank you," she folded the shawl tightly and held the grey bundle against her chest, "and I don't know if he'll send me to fight. I assume he will need every possible Grey Warden fighting beside him."_

_"For your sake, my lady, I hope he does not." Loghain gave her a sad smile. "I don't doubt your skills, but this battlefield is not a place I would want to see you."_

_She tilted her head back, chin raised in defiance. "Why is that?"_

_He paused, eyes turned towards the shield on his cot. The reports he had been receiving were quite grim, but she didn't need to know that. "Because war is a terrible thing and you have already seen many such things. You will see many battles, you don't need to see this one." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And because your father would have willed it this way. I would have wanted the same were I dead, he me, and you my daughter." But Anora likely would have only listened to her own advice on the matter..._

_"If I hear the clarion call," she said firmly, "I have no choice but to follow it, Grey Warden or no. I can not shirk my duty; it is not the Cousland way."_

_Ah, there it was. The headstrong child. "And if it is your duty not to fight?" He raised an eyebrow in challenge. "What would you do then?"_

_"I would evaluate the situation and then make my decision." Her smile had faded into something less jovial and much more determined. "I am not looking for a way out of the battle, but I am looking for my brother. Since I have not been granted permission to go into the Wilds to search for him due to the Darkspawn, it seems the only way we'll be reunited is if all the Darkspawn in the area are destroyed. Thus," she said with a tilt of her head and a hard glint in her eyes, "it seems the battle is the only means to achieve my goal."_

_The Teyrn sighed, but not in disappointment. "There are many other means to achieve what you seek. But, be safe, Aurora," Loghain moved back to the desk functioning as his war table and shuffled some loose parchment together. His back straight and stance rigid, his posture indicated he was dismissing her for the evening. "That is all I ask."_

_"I will try. Good night, Teyrn Loghain, and thank you for the shawl." The Lady ducked out of the Teyrn's tent and back into the rain, shoving her shoulder into the guard standing outside for good measure on her way back._

_

* * *

Happy Valentines Day! Also, fanmix alert! The title of the story (and much of the inspiration) comes from a song of the same name by the Medieval Baebes, which is based off the sonnet in the introduction of this story. It is easily found on youtube, if you're interested in listening! _


	13. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Alistair had very little time for any of them since Andraste had come to the capital. The Heroes had understood why he was preoccupied, though it was Zevran who had echoed Loghain's previous sentiments.

"Ah, Alistair," the assassin had mused, "forever fated to be soft in the hands of hard women." And indeed, Andraste was nothing but an outspoken, strikingly beautiful woman with a spine made of mithril. She herded Alistair around like a sheepdog, and for his part, Alistair did not protest too much at her attentions.

The four of them (counting Dane, since Oghren had elected to stay behind because Chantries made him "feel all soddin' weird.") had passed the time by going to visit Wynne, who was wrapped up in Circle business and _not _Chantry business like they had first believed… though the Chantry did play a large part of it.

It had been hard difficult trying to pry the details of what kept Wynne busy out of her. She was a very resolute individual, and was not easily persuaded. Even as they all sat in the surprisingly warm sunshine that lit up the Chantry's private gardens, she seemed reluctant to speak of what was on her mind.

"Alistair has made things very complex," explained Wynne, eyeing the wandering Templars on the other side of the hedge. "I am not complaining though."

"You keep saying that, but what's so difficult?" the Warden sat nestled close to the old mage's side, and rested her head on the other woman's shoulder. (Dane mimicked her action, except rested his chin on Wynne's knee and snuffled against her skirts.)

"Many adjustments have to be made," Wynne replied vaguely, "adjustments that haven't been considered since…why, I don't think they've ever been considered."

Zevran grinned across from her, having perched himself carefully on top of the flat side of a ruined statue. "You are being especially tricky. It is because of all these well-armed guards, yes? Come; whisper your thoughts into my ear. I am good with secrets."

"I would not be worried about silence. I don't think anyone would dare strike you down here in these sacred gardens," Leliana plucked at a bright blue flower for emphasis, letting it spring back between her fingertips with a sigh. "It would be an offense to the Maker. Bloodshed isn't allowed within the Chantry's walls."

"Adjustments? Hmmm," the Warden hummed in thought.

Wynne squirmed and broke out into soft laughter, pushing the Warden gently away from her neck and ear. "Your breath tickles, Aurora."

"Oh, hoooooo…"

Both the Warden and Wynne put their hands to their faces, as Zevran took the time to cash in on this golden opportunity. "My elderberry is ticklish like my gooseberry?" he smirked.

"Why am _I _the gooseberry?" asked the Warden with mock indignation.

Wynne raised a white eyebrow. "And why am I the elderberry? Are you teasing this poor woman about her age?"

"You," said Zevran pointing at Wynne, "are made into the sweetest of drinks in Antiva. They take the longest to make, but are the most satisfying. And you," he then pointed to the Warden, "are grey. Look a goose. Thus, gooseberry."

"So, it's because she's a _Grey _Warden." Leliana grinned, "Not because she's hairy and sour?"

"Leliana!" said Wynne and the Warden simultaneously.

"I am sorry, I could not help it." The Orlesian smiled, revealing the two perfectly placed dimples in each cheek. "I do not think you are hairy and sour at all." She smoothed a hand down the green dress she wore. "And even if you were, I would still gobble you up all the same."

"We could have a veritable feast, right here, in this garden!" Zevran's eyebrows wiggled for emphasis. "It would be quite the sight."

"I don't know if I want to be a gooseberry," said the Warden after some thought, "my mother used to call me her 'peach.'"

"You do not have the coloring of a peach," Leliana eyed her with some scrutiny, "well, maybe an unripe one. But no one likes unripened fruit."

The Warden gave a small laugh and smiled ruefully at her friend. "Well, when she was angry with me, she'd call me her _sour _peach."

"Well, at least you are a sour peach and not an Orlesian apple!" Zevran held his arms out before him, mimicking an expanded waist line.

"Oh, you…" Leliana narrowed her eyes AT Zevran and reached down next to the bench to pull some stones from the earth. She lobbed them at the Antivan's head.

Zevran was quick to duck the stones. He sprawled out on his seat, chest and stomach shaking with ill-hid amusement. Leliana kept a watchful gaze on him.

Wynne put a gentle hand on the Warden's back. "It is good to see that little has changed. I was worried that things might fall apart once the quest was over, but everyone is still in good spirits."

"Except you," replied the Warden softly.

"Actually, I am in exceptionally good spirits," Wynne's smile was kind. "Thanks in no small part to Alistair, but also in seeing the rest of you again."

"So what did Alistair do then?" the Warden asked, bringing her lips close to Wynne's ear and doing her best not to tickle the mage again. "You can trust me, Wynne. Besides, what does it matter if I know? I won't be a thorn in anyone's side soon enough."

"I am just trying to protect you," Wynne said in quiet tones. "You have this most unfortunate habit of getting involved in things that you don't plan to."

The Warden's tone was dry. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

The mage shook her head. "It isn't; but you've done enough for the Circle to last a lifetime. Should all of this fall through, I don't want you to be distracted from your duties."

"I can't make that call unless you tell me." The Warden nudged Wynne with her shoulder. "So, come out with it, Wynne. What's Alistair done?"

"Alistair has freed the Circle from the Templar's and the Chantry's control."

"What?" Leliana gave a soft gasp. "What a generous gift!"

"And a very dangerous one," Zevran pushed himself up and sat backwards on his hands. "It is no wonder that this information has not been made public."

"The general public would be in an uproar. Oh, but I am still so happy for you," Leliana beamed. "You will finally be able to have lives outside of your gilded cages."

"It is not a total abandonment of the rules," corrected Wynne, "there are still many precautions that we have to take in order to safe guard Ferelden from apostates and maleficars. But yes," she smiled, "I suppose it will no longer be a gilded cage."

The Warden gave an excited wiggle on the bench beside Wynne. "What was Greagoir's reaction to _that_?"

"He does not agree," Wynne's smile was sly, "but he is in no place to argue. He, Irving and I have been making the arrangements for the easiest way to transition the removal of most of the Templars from the Circle."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "You are not getting rid of all of the Templars?"

"It is a good show of our faith in them and their faith in us if we allow them to keep a few Templars within our walls." Wynne sighed; a great, exhale of weary breath escaping her lungs. "It will be so different without them everywhere, but I suspect it will help many of the apprentices adjust better to their new lives."

"Yes," the Warden nodded, "I can imagine that it must be quite terrifying to come to your new home, only to find that executioners are positioned every one or two paces away."

"The irony is," Zevran smirked, "the Templars are probably going to have the hardest time adjusting. It will be difficult for them to change their routine after doing it for so long. They can no longer say," he dropped his voice low, "'Today, I must hold vigil over the mages.' Instead, they have to say, 'Today, I must hold vigil over my post in the market square. May no thief steal this good man's wares.' Because that is where the Chantry will put them, no?"

"Perhaps they will be sent out to help against the remaining bands of Darkspawn?" the Warden mused on this for a few moments. "Oh, I suppose that actually falls on me to make that happen." She sighed. "I suppose I'll need an audience with the Revered Mother…"

"I will mention it to Greagoir and see what he thinks," Wynne patted the Warden's hand gently. "Fighting Darkspawn is certainly more interesting than guard duty, though men like Greagoir did not become Templars because they loved glory or excitement."

The Warden chuckled and shook her head. "Then make it sound honorable and for Ferelden's best interests! I need all the help I can get!"

And Wynne did talk to Greagoir. In fact, the next day the Warden received a missive from him, stating his intent to pledge some of his troops to assisting villages still plagued by the Darkspawn and the withering Blight. He would not pledge all of his templars, for he had last many on the attack on Denerim, but each village would have at least ten templars to aid them in their hunting and recovery. Aurora kept the note close to her person, hoping one day to share this act of good faith with her "superiors" in Weisshaupt: in Ferelden, the Chantry Had Not Forgotten.

In fact, it was sooner than she would have liked that she was being ushered out of Denerim. Having been wrapped and coddled in the embraces of Zevran and Leliana for what seemed like forever (but was really only a few weeks) made leaving…difficult. It did not help her that Zevran had been disinclined to join her on the way to Amaranthine. The Warden had fully anticipated Loghain, Dane and Zevran on her journeys, but at the last moment Zevran had decided against joining her.

It was only as the Warden was fixing the straps on her horse's saddle that he revealed his grand plan to her.

"You do not need three protectors out in the wilds, my fair Warden," the assassin said softly, leaning his forearms on the horse's broad neck.

The Warden tugged sharply on the strap, saying nothing and allowing him to continue.

"Loghain and Dane have it well covered, you see," Zevran explained, "and while you are away doing your duty, there are Wardens here that go about…unsupervised." He flicked his gaze to hers, watching for her reaction to his words. "You understand what I am saying?"

"Are you implying that Andraste and her Grey Wardens are somehow going to interfere with whatever it is I have done in Ferelden?" the Warden raised an unbelieving eyebrow. "Wardens don't work against each other like that."

"For a Fereldan, you are very trusting of Orlesians. Even in Antiva we are wary." Zevran gave her a crooked grin. "You are not in the least bit suspicious?"

"No." The Warden frowned. "I am not. If you want to stay here and watch them while I'm busy elsewhere, that is fine. Do not do it on my behalf, however. Do it on Alistair's, if you must. I will not be party to conspiracies amongst my own Order. I have enough of it already from General Loghain."

Zevran inclined his head. "It shall be as you wish. I do it for Alistair then, and my own curiosity. And your safety, even if you do not choose to acknowledge it."

"I'm disappointed, Zevran," the Warden chuckled, "you came here to tell me you weren't coming and that you were going to spy on the Orlesians. I would have at very least expected something more…well, less _political." _

"Ah," Zevran's eyes glittered, "I think I can find a better way to say goodbye." He brought a hand to touch her cheek, "do you know how we say goodbye in Antiva?"

"I can imagine," said the Warden with a wry smile, bringing a hand up to cover Zevran's smaller one, shying herself away.

"Oh no, Cold One, do not shut me out with your wary smiles and witty words," Zevran brought himself closer, slowly tugging the Warden's face down and trapping her escaping body.

"I'm not…shutting you out," she replied gently.

Zevran shook his head, and stopped further protestations with a brush of his lips against hers. He flicked his tongue against them, tasting their parched appearance. The Warden shifted against him in discomfort, a rough exhale of warm breath fluttering across his cheeks at the contact.

The assassin pulled his head back to look at up her with his golden eyes, forgoing the opportunity to deepen the kiss. "You yet shut me out…even like this." He sighed and shook his head. "My Antivan charms are failing, it seems. But know that," he moved the hand from her cheek to her chest, resting on the thick metal of her breastplate. "Even if you can not find what you seek elsewhere, there will always be one here who wants you, Cold One."

"I…" the Warden frowned. "Thank you, Zevran. But do not close yourselves to others on my behalf. Live as you would. Do not linger for me."

"If I die sad and alone, I hope you feel suitably guilty," Zevran teased with a return of his smile.

"I already feel it, Zevran," the Warden stepped up onto the small platform the servants had provided. She swung a careful leg over the back of her horse, steadying herself in the saddle. It had been a long time since she'd ridden. "Let's go say goodbye to the others, shall we?"

Zevran nodded his assent, following her out of the stables.

8-8-8

The sun slowly began to set below the tree line, and the Grey Warden decided it was time to settle down and make camp. Amaranthine was a few days ride away, and there was no point in straining the horses so soon after leaving Denerim. She was sad to leave her friends behind, but she had bid them all fond farewells and had even taken one of Bann Teagan's as a blessing for safe travels. Though they were on no timetable, all three of them had decided that they preferred the idea of arriving sooner rather than later.

The Warden had been afraid that this journey would be painfully awkward and fraught with hostilities. There were some unresolved issues between she and Loghain, after all. Yet when she caught Loghain looking at her out of the corner of her eyes, she found that his expression was not that of a friend, but also not that of an enemy. He was wary around her, had been ever since she had awoken, and when he was about her his guard was up at all times. He did not even let it drop for Dane.

The Grey Warden pondered this absently as her eyes scanned for a suitable campsite. She wanted it to be easily defensible, but convenient. She did not want the camp to be too close to the woods, but then she also did not want to camp in the middle of an open field. As they were still within range of Denerim, there were no inns or villages nearby that they could travel to. Most of those were spread more to the west where the farming land was better. The closer to the coast they got, the rockier the terrain became and less hospitable the land was.

She had them carry on for a few more miles, eking out every ray of sunshine. The risk proved fortuitous because they came upon a collapsed tower sitting next to a large pond that afforded them the right amount of protection and privacy.

"We'll camp here for the night," she pointed to the jumble of large stones. "If you go find firewood, I'll prepare the campsite."

Loghain nodded his head and brought his horse about, riding back to the copse of trees only a few minutes away. The Warden dismounted and shook her stiff legs. She was not used to riding horses for long periods of time, and she knew that she'd really feel the pain the morning. Dane raced around her feet, having had seemingly limitless energy since leaving Denerim. He had run at his top speed with the horses, and they had only had to stop to rest a few times at the rigorous pace Dane was forcing them to keep.

"Careful there, Ser Dane! Don't spook the horse," scolded the Warden with a grin, taking the horse's reins firmly in one hand as she led the stallion to a perfect tethering spot by the pond. She tied the reins around a large, gnarled root from a misshapen shrub, loosened the saddle on his back and freed a saddle bag, slinging it over her shoulder. The horse, now free of her, grunted at her departure and dipped his head down to graze.

Dane danced around her legs, spinning her in circles.

"Ser Dane, you are going to trip me!"

The Mabari barked happily, rubbing against her like an overgrown cat.

"I know you smell the bone I packed in here," the Grey Warden patted the pack in emphasis, "but you can only have it once we've cleared the space for the night."

Dane whined in protest, his nose making wet snuffling noises as he nudged against the back of her knee, telling her to get a move on.

"If you help too, perhaps we could finish much sooner!" The Warden sauntered through the overgrown jumble of stone, kicking away small fragments with her boot. There was not much left of the tower's structure except for a story of curved wall covered in creeping vines. The horses were easily visible from there, and there was relatively little to clear in terms of debris and weeds. They were likely not the only travelers who had used this as a place to stay for the night, and this theory was doubly verified when she found the remains of a very old campfire.

"Well, that was easy! Aren't we lucky?" The Warden dropped to her knee, letting a shoulder sag against the tower wall as she rifled through her pack. "I think I may have a bone in here for valiant Ser Dane…"

Dane trotted over and sat before her, his stumpy tale wiggling. _Woof. _

"My valiant, slightly chubby Ser Dane," the Warden offered the bone, and ruffled Dane's fur as he plucked the bone from her fingers, chewing it. "You're going to be a lean war dog soon enough, if you keep running the horses at that pace."

Dane growled absently, gnawing with murderous intent on the delicious bone.

The Warden unfastened her sleeping roll and spread it out to her side, and laid out a thick, woolen blanket over it. She lowered herself to it and placed her back against the wall, closing her eyes in bliss. It was nice to sit on a cushioned non-moving surface. Dane wiggled himself over and rested his head against her knee, releasing a sigh as he did so. Gently she drew lazy circles against his side.

"Resting already, are you?"

Cracking an eye open, the Warden saw Loghain leading his horse with a bundle of sticks and kindling in his arms. "Only for a moment."

"Not a bad place for a camp." Loghain's eyes roamed the area. "I can see that there was a fire not too long ago, looks like we're not the only ones who've been here."

"I don't think they're going to come back anytime soon."

"Nor do I." Loghain dropped the sticks by the small circle of stones and trench of the fire pit. "Still, nice to know this isn't an untested area."

The Warden nodded her agreement, closing her eyes again. She heard Loghain tethering his horse and removing his saddlebag, and then the creaking of his armor as he bent to start a fire. The sun was only a few minutes away from disappearing completely, and the night was going to be cold and dark.

Loghain spoke as he began to sort through the kindling, layering wood in the stone pit and in small, even piles beside it. "Do you want to take first watch, or shall I?"

"I don't mind staying awake first. I can wake you when I get tired." The Warden cracked an eye open to observe him. "Which may be never, since I think I've slept long enough to last me a lifetime."

Loghain just grunted in response. He slid out the knife he had in his boot pocket and began to trim a few of the twigs. Small talk was not one his pastimes, nor was it really becoming one of hers. Both of them seemed to appreciate the fine art of silence.

The Lady chewed on her bottom lip in thought as she watched Loghain create the fire, mulling over all the strange circumstances that had led her here. Highever seemed so far away, as did her life before. No doubt he felt the same way, because he'd had a wife once and a king too. He was in autumn while she was in spring, so he had given up many more things than she had, known many more people too. Experienced much more.

The firelight cast long shadows along his features, and he appeared older than he was. The Warden wasn't exactly sure how old he was to begin with, since he appeared in that ambiguous state of appearing both young and old, with the light crafting illusory wrinkles and shadows where none existed in daylight. The bags under his eyes indicated that sleep was not something that came easily or often to this man, but his hair was thick, dark, and luscious without even a touch of grey. Of course his brow was creased beyond repair from his persistent scowl of displeasure, but his cheeks were not gaunt or sunken.

His physique had also not changed over the years either, if his armor was any indication. She knew it was the armor he'd taken from the chevalier commander at the Battle of the River Dane, because its appearance alone was legend. While the body underneath was likely hard and scarred, it probably didn't have much fat on it. Loghain did not appear the sort to indulge in over eating and rest.

And oh, was it the fire that had her suddenly feeling so warm? The Grey Warden was not used to feeling the stirrings of lust, since it had been inappropriate in her youth and was likely frowned upon given her new elevated station. It may not have been lust at all, because this was not the way she had felt towards Alistair. The attraction to him had been almost instantaneous given the circumstances, and her stomach had done dances like the elves around their _vhenadahl _every time he'd so much as looked at her.

But that was in another time and place, when she was young and sharing the burden of duty.

Perhaps this was just curiosity. Yes, it must have been curiosity. She hardly knew the man sitting across from her. She had heard stories yes, seen him, fought him, spoken with him, but he was like a closed book to her and he seemed to prefer it that way. She had tried to get to know him after the Joining, but he had brushed off the majority of her questions as though they were no more than dirt clinging to his hands.

He was intriguing, to say the least. The mystery of the monster: the man who let paranoia and power consume him; was any of it actually true? Why _had _he let Cailan die at Ostagar? He was King Maric and Queen Rowan's son, and surely if Loghain professed to love the two as much as he did he would not have let him die? And where did Arl Eamon fit in with his schemes? He had poisoned Eamon before King Cailan's death, which made no sense given that he had no plans for the throne. Had he sought to supplant Anora, his own daughter? Or was there something between Eamon and Loghain that she didn't know? She had all these questions that she wanted to ask him, but she knew that she had to tread carefully, lest she lose the opportunity to ask him forever. She was content to let him have his secrets.

For now.

As one would shut the door on a noisy crowd, she stilled her curiosity. Plucking out some maps and parchment from her saddlebag, she quieted her thoughts with events and outcomes. She tugged at the straps fastening her breastplate and pauldrons, loosened them enough so that she could slip them over her head and shoulders. She didn't bother with the plating on her arms. Neither of the items would impede her ability to sleep. Settling the breastplate beside her, she pulled two scrolls of particular note into her lap. She had last year's inventory and treasury statements from Amaranthine with her, and set her mind to planning the best use of the castle's resources.

"So they named you after the dawn, did they?"

The Warden looked up from the scroll in her lap, the campfire glittering in her eyes. "Pardon me?"

Loghain poked at the fire with a stick, his gaze intent on its flames. His face looked as though his mind was elsewhere, remembering something or someone. "Your parents. They named you after the dawn."

"I suppose they did, yes." She frowned. "I hadn't really thought of it. No one's brought it up before."

"Aurora." The name came out quieter than he had intended.

She nodded her head. "Yes. That is my name."

"Its funny, you don't look like an Aurora." Loghain raised his eyes to hers, sweeping them over her partially armored legs and torso on their way up, noticing the way that her undershirt gripped to the curve of her waist and how the straps of her armor framed the swell of her chest… "You find Auroras, and Roses and Fionas in castles. Maybe locked up tight by protective fathers or jealous husbands. You only see Gertrudes and Ruths on the battlefield, most times wearing their brother's armor."

The Warden chuckled and patted her breastplate. "This is hardly Fergus's armor."

"And I suppose this is hardly a battlefield." His gaze was guarded and half-lidded as he regarded her. His mouth tilted up into the strange, rueful half smile that the Warden had seen during their final conversation in Redcliffe. "Perhaps if times were different you wouldn't have had to leave your castle."

She shrugged, the leather straps on her shoulders creaking at the movement, biting painfully against her. She slipped her fingers underneath the leather and tugged, wincing as she gave herself some room to move. It wouldn't have been a problem before Denerim, but she must have grown soft during her bed rest. "There was still the Blight. It could have replaced Howe if the battle to the south had gone ill, but there's no point in dwelling on the what ifs. Makes you crazy, after all." She gave him a pointed stare.

"You're more practical than I give you credit for. Heh." Loghain discarded the stick in his hand by tossing it into the flames, and he watched it become engulfed and burn. "Is that Eleanor or Bryce's doing, I wonder?"

"Eleanor's," replied the Warden absently, rubbing her forehead with her fingers as she went back to looking at Amaranthine's reports.

Loghain chuckled. "Most likely. Bryce was an idealist. Always was."

The combination of her father's name and Amaranthine's incredibly lucrative year brought painful stirrings in her gut. Another question came to mind: if Loghain had fought beside her father against the Orlesians and seen his dedication, why then did he condemn him to death? The moment had come, the Warden felt, to get at least one answer out of many. This question was as good as any other.

She brought her eyes back to him, and found him watching her with his dark, serious eyes. "I want you to answer me truthfully, Loghain."

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "I think I can guess what this is about."

The Warden rested her elbows on her knees, leaning forward towards him. "When Arl Howe came to Castle Cousland on the eve of my father's departure, he said his troops had been delayed. He was not bringing troops to Ostagar, was he?"

"No," said Loghain with a shake of his head, "he was not."

"Then you knew," the Warden continued, "what his purpose was in Highever?"

"I was not ignorant of what was going to occur in your castle, no." Loghain shifted his body towards her, looming just behind the fire.

"When did you forget that the Couslands were never Orlesian sympathizers?" The Warden's mouth pursed itself into a thin line, her lips turning white at the effort.

Loghain shrugged, dark hair slipping over his shoulder unbidden. "Rendon made a compelling case against your family and asked my leave to see to the matter himself." He watched her jaw tighten, "did I forget that your father had fought beside me? No. Did I question his motivation for receiving and reciprocating gifts from nobles in Orlais? Yes."

"And you thought a bottle of perfumed oil was a threat to Ferelden?" The Warden knitted her brows. "You hated Orlais enough to kill my family and send the northern Teyrn into chaos and disarray? Surely you realized Howe could never have mobilized our troops to assist you?"

"It was a calculated risk I was willing to take. It did not escape my notice that your father was a powerful and well liked man." Loghain's eyes swept over her again, "and that you were most likely to succeed him as Teyrna once he was dead." He bent forward towards her. "Did you know that there was a popular opinion at the time of Cailan's ascension to the throne that your father should have been king?"

The Warden's eyes narrowed as she pondered his words, "So you agreed to Howe's plan to protect Anora's claim to the throne? You didn't want the opinions of the Bannorn to motion my father to kingship with Cailan's heirless death?"

"I have no doubt that Anora could have swayed them otherwise but," Loghain nodded, "yes. It was convenient that Howe's own ambitions were best for Ferelden, since we did not need new leadership at such a critical time."

"Then why did you wait until Fergus left? Why not just kill him while in the castle too?"

Loghain shrugged. "That, I can only assume, was poor planning on Howe's part."

"And you thought to kill Fergus by sending him on a scouting mission into the middle of the wilds?" The Warden raised a challenging eyebrow.

He shook his head. "Your brother, or your father for that matter, would never have obeyed an order to retreat when it meant leaving the king in danger. Your brother as captain of a small scouting party meant that he was out of the way come the battle, and unable to interfere with my orders."

"All right," replied the Warden slowly, "now explain to me Arl Eamon's poisoning then. He was dying by your hand before the battle at Ostagar occurred."

"Eamon is married to an Orlesian woman." Loghain grunted and tossed some sticks on the fire, "and is easily persuaded by her…" he paused in thought, "womanly charms. But there was more to it than that. Who do you think even proposed the idea of sending for reinforcements from Orlais? It was not Cailan. No, the boy wanted to try and unite all of Thedas against the blight, including foreiners like the Qunari. Eamon suggested that we call for Orlais. Besides, his illness was never meant to kill him; just to keep him out of the way." He sighed. "I had eyes in Redcliffe. Should the Arl become too sick, the antidote was to be administered immediately."

She did not say anything for a long while, and merely looked at him with her jaw tensed and her eyes guarded. Loghain thought he might turn to stone by the intensity of her gaze, for her eyes were unmoving and completely locked on his own. She was as still and as quiet as a statue.

But the intensity passed, and she gave a long, loud exhale. Her shoulders sagged with the force of it. At last she said, "Thank you, for your honesty."

Loghain frowned, "that's it? I'm surprised, I was expecting more."

The Grey Warden chuckled quietly, "you want me to hit you? Curse at you?"

"It would be a nice change from your strange complicity." Loghain regarded her carefully, "you forgive very quickly, if that's what this is."

She shook her head, "I don't forgive quickly, but I do forgive out of necessity." She smiled wanly, "we have to work together, you know. We're companions on the road, we need to recruit and rebuild the Grey Wardens, and we have to lead them. I can't do that if I am spending all my energy hating you."

Dane raised his head from beside her leg, his tongue lolling out as he regarded Loghain. He gave a short whine.

"And Dane happens to like you." The Warden stroked the Mabari's head, letting her fingers trace patterns in this short fur. "Which means you can't truly be all that bad. Don't think I haven't forgotten though." She gave him a knowing stare, "I have a very long memory."

"You and I both," replied Loghain in a soft voice, returning his attention back to the fire and the long night ahead.

* * *

_Wow! Sorry that took so long, was in the middle of working, undergraduate honors theses and MBA classes. But just MBA classes now, so more free time, yaaaay!_


	14. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Several days later found them at the gates of Vigil's Keep. It was raining and both the Warden and Loghain were sharing smug, satisfied glances that they'd made it to the relative warmth and safety that the fortress had to offer them. Which, unfortunately, wasn't much more than a dry roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and a warm bed to sleep in. Naturally, these were both of great comfort to the two Grey Wardens, but neither of them was particularly pleased with the state of affairs at the Keep.

"This isn't a military establishment," remarked Loghain dryly to the Warden over their dinner. His long hair hung loose around his shoulders, its darkness contrasting sharply against the silver doublet he wore.

They were nestled in the common hall of the Keep, sitting at one of the ancient oak tables that they had shoved as close to the hearth as they could without risking a fiery disaster. Dane was nestled between the table and the fire, snoring in the warmth while a thick bone rested between his paws.

The walls of the hall were still decorated in the Howe's colors, but the Seneschal had assured them that he was working on suitable replacements to commemorate the Keep's new patronage. (The Warden had insisted that the draperies need not be grey, but the Seneschal had merely smiled at her secretively when listening to her suggestion.) Until that time, the drapes would stay up since they helped insulate the room in the cold, rainy weather. While the rain was predicted to go away, the chill was not. Amaranthine was always cold.

The Warden shrugged at Loghain's comment, picking up the loaf of bread that rested between them and ripping it in two. The crust gave way with a mouth-watering crunch and steam rose out of the soft, fleshy interior. "I didn't expect it to be much of one," she offered him a half of the loaf and then proceeded to shred her own half into bite size bits. Crumbs scattered across her plate and the table. "Coming here for Yuletides, I would never have known that this was once a fortress."

"It was quite formidable during the War with Orlais, though you can see how much time changes things." Loghain looked at his food as he spoke to make his point: sweet tea, fresh bread, rabbit and venison stew with thick, floury dumplings, and freshly seasoned potatoes. Not the food that armies marched on, nobles yes, but never armies. (Well, unless it was an _Orlesian _army.) Amaranthine had gone soft in the absence of war. Complacent.

"You probably never even ate half as well the first time you were here, hmm?" asked the Warden with a grin, reading his thoughts. She plunked a piece of bread into her soup for emphasis, scooping up a pink sliver of meat in the process. She brought it to her lips, blowing on the morsel to cool it, before placing it delicately on her tongue. The rich, gamey taste of the rabbit was complimented by the soft flavor of the veal and the creamy flour from the dumpling. Superb. Were she not a dignified Grey Warden Commander, she would have let loose a shiver of delight.

"We were all starving, if you must know," Loghain sighed, "and the meal that the cook served us was really nothing more than a watery chicken broth filled with some foul-smelling greens." After a moment, he chuckled. "Still the best damn meal I've ever ate though."

"Hunger is the best seasoning, they say. Though whatever the cook has put on these potatoes?" The Warden plucked one of the roasted, golden potatoes from her plate and held it up before her face, admiring the tiny green and brown flecks. "Delicious. Better than what…Nan…made," she sighed, dropping the potato back onto her plate. "Probably poisonous."

"Probably," agreed Loghain, eating his own potatoes. "Its good to see you're channeling paranoia appropriately, but don't let it spoil your dinner." He watched her straighten her back and shoulders at his unintended reprimand as she tried to fill in the gaps in her emotional armor. He made a conscious decision not comment on it, and more importantly, not to coddle her about it. He didn't pity her, and she didn't need to think he did either. "What do you have planned for us tomorrow then?" he asked, pushing her thoughts down a different avenue.

"Well," said the Warden carefully, "I thought we might investigate the grounds during daylight and assess the needed structural changes. It might also be wise for us to speak with any local blacksmiths to gauge their skill and see if they require any raw materials or if they have the means to acquire them. I would assume so, but I would rather be certain. No point in having soldiers that have no equipment."

Loghain nodded. "Go on."

The Warden blinked. "You think we can fit more into our day than that?"

"I am waiting for you to tell me about how you plan to make the inhabitants of Amaranthine warm up to the idea of living with Grey Wardens," chided the former Teyrn, acting and speaking like one now. "The people of this Arling are its life blood. If you can't get them on your side, you may as well go elsewhere to establish your new base of operations." Loghain may have lacked certain social graces and interpersonal skills, but he understood what was best for the common people having been one of them once.

"_Our_ base of operations," reminded the Warden sharply. "You can't keep siphoning yourself out of the Wardens."

"My apologies, a mere slip of the tongue," replied Loghain with wry amusement. "But I return to my previous question: how are you going to persuade the citizens of Amaranthine that this is in their best interest? As I understand it, most people don't like it when soldiers are garrisoned nearby. Fathers fear for their daughters, innkeepers fear for their property…nasty business, living with soldiers."

The Warden frowned. "How _isn't _it in their best interest? First and foremost, there are still Darkspawn wandering around this world and the Grey Wardens would protect Amaranthine from harm with their lives. Furthermore, this protection would extend beyond Darkspawn in the region, since the Wardens would harbor no threat to their homeland and thus the roads would be safe from highwaymen and robbers. Plus, the Grey Wardens are not a common army and I am not afraid to mete out punishment for disobedience. We are also more like templars rather than your average military force, and no one seems to mind living with the templars nearby. I would also like to go on to say that not only are we like templars, but we are closely tied to the Chantry. We are, if you would, the Chantry's last line of defense and their last resort when the world is about to crumble. Not to mention that everywhere outside of Ferelden we are actually quite well thought of for our contributions to Thedas. Our presence would not only make Amaranthine a place of note, but it would also attract a variety of businesses and traders to the area, which should help stimulate the local economy." She inhaled deeply, as if to continue.

Loghain quickly held up his hand as if to say, 'no more,' and gave her a half-crooked grin. "Unfailingly optimistic of you."

"You are not convinced?" The Warden casually picked up a small crust of bread and flicked it at Loghain's forehead. "Are you convinced now?"

Loghain looked at the offending chunk that rested squarely on the center of his plate. "Maybe if you gave this old man some of that stew to go with it…"

The Warden glanced down to her own half-finished bowl. "You're welcome to it, if you're still hungry." She looked towards his empty plate and now understood why her mother had insisted on leading every conversation at dinner.

"Growing girl like you needs to eat," Loghain placed the bread in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Besides, wasn't it you who told me that side effects of the Joining included fatigue, irritability, and increase in appetite?"

The Warden chuckled, "you know, for some of us those aren't really side effects at all, but rather a way of life."

"And you hide all of them remarkably well," returned Loghain, "which you will need to continue to do, if you are to be successful in running this Arling. It is strange," he mused, "in some way, you still became Teyrna."

"I…suppose you're right." The Warden hummed, her expression one of bemusement. "Well, I suppose I am more like one of the Banns. I do not report to the King directly, but rather through Fergus."

Loghain shrugged. "Those are just semantics. You are becoming an important, influential person. I pray that the attention doesn't get to you the way that it does to some men."

"Hopefully you will pray too." The Warden winked. "After all, you are the iron-spined one."

Loghain emitted something that sounded like a snort. "Don't emulate my example. I do not pick my enemies well enough, apparently."

She grinned, full lips pulling back over even teeth. "Yet you certainly pick fine enough friends."

"Do you truly consider me a friend?" Loghain raised an eyebrow, regarding her warily. "I know after our…conversation there seemed to be some understanding between you and I. I just didn't realize how far that understanding went."

The Warden reached her hand across the table and laid it on Loghain's forearm, squeezing it gently. "You are my Brother now, Loghain." Her dark eyes darted across his face, "I can not dwell in the past. If I cannot call you my friend, what else can I call you tomorrow?"

"I could still be your ally," suggested the older Warden in a weary tone.

"But as a friend, you are still my ally."

Loghain shook his head, unmoved. "Friendships are messy things."

"Well, whatever _you _may regard _me _as, _I _still consider _you _my friend and ally." The Warden withdrew her hand with a final farewell squeeze. "So there."

"So long as you don't make me call you 'Sister' I suppose I could be amenable to this arrangement." With a resigned sigh, Loghain slumped in his seat. "And don't think this gives you any liberty to start dictating things to me, young lady."

"As your friend, I am allowed to be brutally honest in your taste of clothing," the Warden smirked. "Silver," she gestured to his shirt, "fades you. I think you would be better in darker tones."

"And yellow," he mimicked her gesture regarding her shirt, "has the curious effect of making the bags under your eyes stand out."

The Warden's hands shot up to her face, fingertips probing at the flesh just below her eyes. "It does not."

"Truly, it does."

The Warden's eyes narrowed. "How would you know?"

"Because Anora has the same complexion as you and made the same mistake. Though she caught her error before the dinner party…" Loghain lapsed briefly into a memory, his eyes distant as he recalled a younger version of his daughter staring at herself in her vanity mirror, poking and prodding her features with dissatisfaction.

The Warden harrumphed.

"There's no need for you to change out of it though," Loghain chuckled, "you only have me for company, and I won't judge you by what you wear. I am not a lady in waiting, after all. I do understand that soldiers sometimes have no choice but to wear hideous, unflattering shades of _yellow_."

"You are a mean man, Loghain Mac Tir, and I will remember this."

"I hope you do," replied Loghain dryly, "because I'd sorely dislike to consistently remind you that yellow really isn't your color."

"You probably just don't like the color yellow," the Warden's fingers drummed against the table.

"I happen to like the color yellow just fine," Loghain shrugged, "My wife's hair was yellow. The same as Anora's and," he canted his head, observing her curiously, "yours too. Is there a reason you're so defensive about my preference?"

The Lady plucked at the silver embroidery on her sleeve. "My _mother _made this shirt for me. She said I looked _lovely _in it." Her tone was teasing, if not the slightest bit petulant.

"Oh. I can see that there is some sentimental value then…" Loghain sighed. "You probably looked different in it back then too. More rested. Probably more accessorized. Less armor more…" he gestured vaguely for the right words, "jewelry."

The Warden nodded.

"Well," said Loghain quietly, "if you get a good night's rest, maybe I'll reevaluate my opinion on how you look in that color."

"And what color would you suggest I wear? Besides, I don't need you to reevaluate your opinion. You are welcome to have your own." The Lady traced some embroidery with her finger. "Maker knows it's best if we aren't sycophantic towards one another. That would be," she smirked, "boring."

Loghain eyed the curve of her lips with a wary gaze. "I am beginning to wonder who is in the more dangerous predicament: Alistair or myself."

The Lady's eyes flicked up to his, sparkling with curiosity. "Why? Are you unsettled by something?"

"Alistair runs the risk of being manipulated by an older woman; and here I am running the risk of being manipulated by a younger woman." He scowled.

"How are you being manipulated?" A shapely eyebrow rose.

"Heh, I haven't the faintest idea," he said. "But I know its happening. I am probably going to wake up tomorrow morning with a compulsion to buy you new shirts all in that same shade."

"Oh please," the Warden lightly smacked his arm in reproach. "Manipulation is the _last _thing you should be worried about where I am concerned. Though if you wanted to buy me some shirts…" she grinned, "I would not be opposed to the idea. To think, I wouldn't even have to carry them, because we have the horses!"

Loghain was amused and baffled at the Warden's glibness, especially where he was concerned. She was a charming amalgamation of those qualities that he found endearing in a daughter, appealing in a woman, and respectable in a man. And to be honest, while he usually was not one for banter and mindless chatter, it was nice to hear her speak. After their discussion all those nights ago, they had not spoken much since. While she had been warmer, throwing him careless smiles and nods as they rode, they had not actually conversed. He had spent many nights in camp just tending the fire in silence while she read over her documents. It was only as they had approached and entered Vigil's Keep that she'd opened up, unfurling her petals to the sunlight as some of his wife's flowers had done.

Still, he was unsure if he could keep matching her stride for stride in dialog. For Loghain Mac Tir, it had been a long time since he'd had a "friend" and even when he'd had them, there had always been some distance, some bitterness that had hindered a fully committed, emotional connection. His closest friend was probably Anora, if it was even appropriate for parents to call their own offspring friends. It made parenting more difficult than necessary.

"Madam, I am going to truthfully admit that you tire me out."

The Warden's eyes widened.

Loghain amended his statement. "I am just…unaccustomed to long bouts of conversation. It would be boorish of me to just be silent."

"Oh," her shoulders sagged in relief. "I suppose I have been chattering on. Hopefully the banter hasn't bored you?"

Loghain shook his head. "Not at all. I'm actually rather pleased," he dropped his eyes to the table, eyeing the dishes between them. "I had wondered if Alistair had broken you."

"Alistair?" the Lady frowned, "no, he could never break me." She rapped her knuckles on her chest. "Solid as stone, I am. Please, give me more credit than that."

"I did." He flicked his eyes back to hers, "You are a strong girl and you make good decisions. You would have been a great queen, though I fear you ultimately would have wasted away waiting on the Banns. Probably better this way for us all."

"Heh," the Warden winced, her mouth puckering a fraction. "If you say so."

The look did not go unnoticed by Loghain. "Is it that you don't like me talking ill of the Banns, or are you hesitant at the praise?"

The Lady closed her eyes and shook her head. "I'm unbothered by both. I am just not focused on the alternative, impossible outcomes of the past. It is," she said quietly, "hard to imagine myself as anything other than a Grey Warden. I know that I was someone's daughter and am someone's sister, but those qualities seem so…removed. Does that even make sense? I'm nattering again, aren't I?"

Loghain shook his head. "No, you aren't nattering. I know exactly how you feel."

The Warden chuckled ruefully, "you and I, we're missing some pints of ale to drown our sorrows in."

"I'm a miserable drunk," warned Loghain. "Doesn't soothe me at all. You, on the other hand, are probably some sort of effervescent drunk." She probably was, for that matter. She _would_ giggle at every little thing he said.

"Oh, I wouldn't know. I have never really been a great…imbiber of alcohol." The Lady smiled sheepishly and reached for her cold tea, taking a long sip.

"Just sips on special occasions, I take it?" Loghain clucked his tongue in amusement. "Your parents had you on a short rope, didn't they? Lucky for Bryce you didn't turn into some tipsy slattern. Too many of them to count already."

"Yes, they did. Well, as much as they could." The Warden cupped her mug in both hands, her thumbs running over the rough rim of the lip. "I miss them."

Loghain could not bring himself to say that he missed them as well, even though he did miss Bryce Cousland and his wife. It was not appropriate for him to share in the other Warden's grief. Instead, he just watched her thumbs trace their idle pattern against the mug.

"So tomorrow we begin with the city?" asked the Warden after her few moments of silence.

Loghain nodded. "That would be my suggestion. As we leave Vigil's Keep, we can at least do a preliminary assessment of the barbican and arrow loops. I think I spotted a murder hole above us when we first entered, but it was too dark to tell. Oh, before I forget," Loghain tapped the table for emphasis, "as you retire tonight, give some thought as to who you would like to be your military commander in your absence. I am sure you will want to begin recruitment and training immediately and you can't do that while you're not in Ferelden."

"I've actually given some thought to it already," the Warden smiled, "I think you'll like my suggestion."

"Oh?" Loghain raised an eyebrow, "who did you have in mind?"

"Ser Cauthrien." The Warden looked infinitely pleased with herself at the startled expression on Loghain's face. "She's loyal to you, which means she's also loyal to me, capable with a blade, and disciplined. She is everything that I need in a lieutenant," explained the Warden.

"You are not going to force her to join the Grey Wardens, are you?" Loghain's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He knew that Cauthrien would probably ask to join the Grey Wardens anyway, since she had felt it her duty to protect and serve him after 'all the things he had done for Ferelden.' Still, it didn't make him feel anymore comfortable with the idea of another young woman's life being snatched away prematurely by the Grey Wardens.

"No. I would not stop if her she wished to join, however." The Warden tapped her nails against the earthenware cup. "But that would be entirely her decision. I see no need to conscript anyone. We are not that desperate." There was no need to add the word 'yet' to the end of her sentence. Yet. "Do you think it is a good idea? I can pen the missive before bed and have it sent out in the morning after you sign it."

"Why must I sign it?" Loghain frowned, "you are the Grey Warden Commander."

"Because if you sign it," said the Warden, as though this was an obvious fact, "she is guaranteed to come, and quickly too, if my suspicions are correct. If I sign it, she may not come and then we would have to spend time finding a suitable replacement for the position."

"Suspicions?" Loghain's eyes narrowed, "what suspicions?"

"Nothing that you need to concern yourself with," the Warden chuckled. "But yes, you need to sign it."

"Very well," the older Warden sighed deep in his chest. "I will sign it, as she is a good candidate for the position. Just keep me out of whatever…womanly scheming you plan to do."

"Scheming?" the Warden batted her eyes innocently. "Not I. Never I." She whistled sharply and then clucked her tongue, and Dane's head immediately perked up beyond the edge of the table, ears high and tight. "Ser Dane and I are going to retire to our room for the night," she stood, thighs jostling the table slightly as she stepped away from her high backed chair. She gave Loghain a tired smile, indicating that she had _also _grown weary from their banter. "Sleep well and sweet dreams when you choose to retire, Loghain. I will have Cauthrien's letter ready for your signature when I see you in the morning."

Loghain nodded his farewell, "You too," and watched the tall Warden and her Mabari walk out towards the entrance hall, the former's hips gently swaying and the latter's tail wiggling with each step.

* * *

_Chapter is a little shorter than what I've posted previously, but the muse gives what the muse will give. I assume that the preference is for longer chapters, but updates are updates (and I have been bad with those lately...)! As you can see, the relationship continues to deepen albeit at a slow and steady pace. One day, I swear, __it_ _will happen and it shall be glorious! __Goodness, but I can't wait until those two are out in the woods again and are busy hacking up bandits and Darkspawn. Also, feel free to listen to 'San'c Fuy Belha Ni Prezada' by the Mediaeval Baebes to get a feel for the mood of the chapter: it is slightly flirtatious and whimsical, but also a little sad_.


	15. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 **

Loghain struggled to fasten the thick woolen cloak around his neck as he kept pace with the Warden's long strides. They sped quickly through the corridors of Vigil's Keep. "It would not have been my choice to summon all the Banns and Freeholders here personally," he scolded, fingers slipping and twisting against the delicate gold clasp. "Personal visits are often shorter and more meaningful. They are busy too, you know. This is about the time of year that we start harvesting our crops."

"They are lucky that they even have land to grow crops," said the Warden quietly, checking her own attire with her hands. Fingers smoothed up her grey tunic and straightened her silver clasp, then readjusted the long, grey cape at her shoulders. "But more to the point, I want everyone in this territory working together. Having me solicit them door to door might make a few of them," she pursed her lips as she thought for the word, "_suspicious_: what do I have to say to some that I can not say to them all? Also, this is the way that Howe used to run Amaranthine."

"And you seek to emulate his example?" Loghain raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Oh, not my intent at all." The Warden shrugged. "It was my understanding from my father that Rendon was not a bad Arl in the administrative sense. I would rather not make everyone in that room any more uncomfortable than they have to be, because you know best of all how much we Fereldans _love _change."

Her companion grunted. "At the sharp end of pointy sticks," Loghain echoed her chuckle mercilessly. "I am still amazed that they all came. You only sent out the summons a mere five days ago. Does everyone just drop what they're doing and come when you call?"

The Warden grinned, batting her eyes at him over her lightly armored shoulder. "Ever since I was born." True, but not for the reasons that Loghain considered. Originally a sickly child, the Warden had been doted on more for the sake of her health than any other characteristic. It had been a revered mother who had suggested the coddling stop and that she be allowed fresh air and exercise. (Ferelden knew whom it had to thank for the Warden's eventual vigor and swordsmanship.)

"Spoiled like an Orlesian princess."

She hummed her appraisal. "And just think! If we weren't here, we would miss the arrival of Ser Cauthrien!"

"Remember your oath to me," Loghain said with a tinge of wry amusement. "I don't want to be charged with the task of scraping you both from the floors when you're finished with one another."

"I know you are worried that I could best her one-on-one, but I gave my word I would behave." The Warden's sigh was dramatic, "I do have need of her in one piece, if you'll remember. I would not have requested her employment if I simply wanted vengeance."

"She was acting on my orders, if you'll recall." Loghain frowned at her, "so if it is anyone who deserves your vengeance, it is me."

The Warden said nothing at his comment, her intent being to remind Loghain that he did not have to self-pity himself and the past anymore. After all, he was the one who was making a mountain out of this tiny molehill: the Warden had nearly forgotten her previous encounters with Cauthrien and the woman's incredibly shiny (and sharp!) sword. Fort Drakon and its painful stay was lifetimes ago.

The two reached the doors of Vigil's Keep's receiving room. The murmur of the Freeholders drifted through the gap at the bottom of the door as did the smell of the fragrant rushes being crushed under foot. The Warden placed her hand on the oaken ring, ready to pull it open, but turned back to look at Loghain to assess his readiness. She noticed that he was pinching his cloak shut with two fingers, scowling at her so deeply that his eyebrows formed a thick, straight line across his face. The smile she was wearing softened.

"Here," she said softly, removing her hand from the door. She made an upward motion with her fingers. "Tilt your head back for me."

Loghain complied silently, lifting his chin and leaning his head back to reveal the pale underside of his throat. "The pin has had a habit of jamming ever since I've worn it."

"I see," the Warden shooed his hands away and came to rest on the cloak's gilded clasp. She wiggled the two locking mechanisms with her thumbs, their sharp points not even breaking the skin of her thickly callused fingers. When she felt the pins give way, she firmly pressed them into place with a satisfying _snick. _"There." She tapped the golden clasp; fingers coming into contact with Loghain's neck. Even though he had shaved that morning, she could still feel the beginnings of stubble at her fingertips. She pulled the cloak over his shoulders and dropped her hands to her sides.

"Thank you." Loghain looked at her warily, as if waiting for some remark.

The Warden stared back at him, her face a blank mask. "Are you ready to go in?"

"No, I'm not." Loghain inhaled deeply. "You should do this on your own."

"What? Why?" It was the Warden's turn to frown.

"Because you are the Commander and it would reflect poorly on you to stand in my shadow." Loghain sighed. "I know more about running territories than you, 'tis true, but you are supposed to be the foundation for this one, not me."

"Well, what are you going to do then?" the Warden's hands balled into fists, nails digging into fleshy palms in irritation. "Just stand here at the door?"

"Yes, actually." Loghain gave her a soft smile. "This entire operation is yours to handle. You know your points by rote by now, and if you don't, it's your fault for not being prepared."

"Oh, I'm prepared." The Warden chewed her lip thoughtfully. "I just don't want to make a mistake. All those Banns and Freeholders still see me as a thirteen-year-old girl in a frilly dress with no sense. I do not want them to keep seeing me that way. I need them to respect my suggestions and authority as a peer, not see me as a child."

"If you think that my presence there is going to dissuade them of that image of you, you're wrong. You'll only make it worse, since they'll only see you as an extension of me and you'll never have their respect and they'll never trust you. If it's just you," Loghain's eyes darted to the seam that split the double doors, "then they will see your quality. You have nothing to fear." He gave a grim chuckle, "while I'm sure it was easy to convince an entire Landsmeet to turn against me, it is still an impressive feat. This little meeting is nothing compared to that."

"Hm." The Warden did not look convinced. "If you say so."

"Tell you what," Loghain slipped to the side of the doors, hand on the thick oaken ring. "If you make a particularly bad gaffe, which I know you won't, I'll come in with some reason for you to leave. Until then," he tugged the door open, "I'll be right here."

The Warden's eyes narrowed but she said nothing, instead ran her long fingers through her loose hair and stepped into the hall.

Loghain shut the door behind her, leaving an inch open by which he could place his ear and eavesdrop. He listened as she greeted them, heard the smooth richness of her voice as she called them each by their name and title, thanking them for their time. She was gracious like the best of hosts, but by the firm timbre she used to address them it was clear she was serious. Loghain smiled despite himself: like Anora, the Warden was a bewitching blend of beauty, tact, and political strategy. No doubt the landholders truly did see her as the girl of thirteen in their memories, but that would be their undoing, for who could deny anything of a charming innocent?

He stood by the gap in the door, stalwart and alert for the two hours it took for her to explain and debate her propositions with them. While he was always impressed by her persuasive tongue, there were times when he could barely restrain himself from jumping in to save her. To Loghain (and likely the others), it was painfully obvious that she had no experience in managing land and he could not help but feel embarrassed on her behalf… but to the Warden's credit she was able to recover from her mistakes and gain back any lost ground with her easy laugh and sharp wit.

Yet when she slipped through the door and rested her back against it to close it, he could tell by her expression that she was tired. The rigor of debate and negotiation without the necessity of action immediately after was something new to her. Politics, up until this point, had been a game of strong wills and quicker sword arms. Now it was a game of waiting: would the gentry comply and to what extent?

Surprisingly, she didn't ask Loghain for affirmation. This both intrigued and pleased the older Grey Warden, who had thought she would have been just _dying _to know his opinion. Yet she was keeping her tongue and her pace (as always) and he double stepped to keep up.

"You did remarkably well," offered Loghain with a smile, "for your first time."

"I felt foolish." She shook her head, sending a stream of hair over her shoulder. "It seemed as though they were looking through me and what I was saying."

"They are probably unaccustomed to your candor." Loghain laid a hand on her arm. "You were very earnest; it probably made them nervous. A good strategy, if that's what you were going for."

"It is a sad day if being 'earnest' earns you mistrust." The Warden shrugged off his arm and straightened, pulling her tunic down over her hips.

Loghain regarded the young woman carefully. "That is only so if you do not deliver on your words, which I know you will."

"I suppose." The Warden inclined her head towards the hallway they had come from earlier. "Do you want to get something from the kitchens? I know it is only a little after mid-day, but I feel as though I haven't eaten at all."

"I see your tongue used up all your energy." Loghain smirked. "Lead on, Madam, I will follow."

And follow Loghain did as the Warden traversed through the Keep as though she had lived there all her life. They had both done a fair bit of exploring around the Keep over the course of their time, searching for the things that Howe had stolen from Highever. Unfortunately, they had found no trace of the Cousland riches. Even though Amaranthine's records had shown an influx of "luxury" related goods and income, there was nothing stored in Vigil's Keep or within Amaranthine City. Either Howe had created hidden passages (because Loghain knew where _all _the original hidden passages and hiding holes were in Vigil's Keep, and there was no trace of the wealth in any of them) of his own, had shipped the stolen goods elsewhere or was lying. Both knew that the mystery of the missing Cousland coin was not going to be solved by the time they departed from Vigil's Keep to Orlais.

In the kitchen, the Warden set about the task of placating the worried cook and prowling around the pantry looking for a quick and easy snack. The cook swung her head around looking for any signs of the Warden's Mabari, and relaxed visibly when there was no obvious herald of his arrival. The Warden could only nod as the cook grumbled about the dog stealing an entire plate of sausages from dinner and was quick to bid her goodbye with a large chunk of sharp, smelly cheese in her hand.

"I was thinking we might stop at the Circle before we left Ferelden," commented the Warden as she broke off a piece of her cheese. She sat perched on a barrel in the hallway, one foot flat on the ground and the other swinging in the air. "I never got to properly thank Winifred and Elissa for their help…they'd left Denerim without even saying a word."

Loghain sighed. "I'll stay at the inn; _you_ can enter the lion's den."

"They wouldn't harm you." The Warden brought the cheese to her lips and nibbled on it thoughtfully. "They're too busy negotiating with the templars to worry about a Grey Warden."

"A Grey Warden who attempted to collapse the Circle." Loghain licked his lips.

The Warden grunted. "Maker's breath, I thought _I _was the morose one. Here," she offered him a chunk of the Denerim cheddar, "eat up."

"You are stuffing my mouth to stop me from talking. I know this tactic well enough." Loghain obediently shoved the cheese into his mouth, tongue coming out to lick the corner of his mouth.

"A tactic that works every time!" she winked. "Anyway, is there anywhere that you would like to go before we leave for Orlais? Gwaren maybe?"

"Ostagar."

The Warden's eyes widened. "Ostagar? Why would you want to go there? That is quite out of our way…"

Loghain's keen blue eyes pinned her to her seat. "Because I have a hunch, and I need to know the truth before we go to Orlais."

Eyebrows raised high, the Lady waited for him to continue and explain his hunch.

"Cailan had a chest filled with documents in his tent, and I want to know if they still exist. The Darkspawn are not usually interested in pieces of paper, so I'm safely assuming the chest has remained intact. Locked, but intact," explained Loghain.

"How are you going to open the chest without a key?" asked the Warden.

"With my sword." Loghain's laugh was dark, "the chest is only made of wood, not iron. A few good hacks and it should open."

"Oh." The Warden looked as though she should have already known the answer to her obvious question. "Well, I have no problem stopping at Ostagar…but it will be dangerous. There are likely still Darkspawn in that area."

"We're Grey Wardens; killing Darkspawn is what we do best, I thought."

"It is; I was just uncertain if you were up for any armed combat." She outstretched her leg and tapped Loghain, who was leaning on the wall opposite her, on the stomach with her foot. "Didn't know if you had grown soft," she teased.

Loghain looked at the offending foot and sighed, pushing it away along with the long-stretch-of-shapely-Warden-leg-barely-hidden-by-black-leggings behind it. He brushed off the dirt that her boot had left behind on his tunic. "Young lady, I've seen a lifetime of war. Even if I _was _soft, I've no doubt that I could perform adequately enough to kill a few Darkspawn."

"I have no doubt either," the Warden smiled at him. "The history books could never quite do you justice."

"I fear to think about what they say." Loghain folded his arms over his chest. "History is written by the victors, and while sometimes true, is often awash with glorified exploits and vague details."

The Warden's face became a mask of disingenuous surprise. "So Queen Rowan didn't ride into battle with her breasts bare? I feel lied to."

"Maybe in some Orlesian fairytale she did," Loghain scowled at the thought. "The woman had more practical sense than both Maric and I combined. It would be Maric who'd be more likely to ride to battle without armor if it meant some sort of moral victory..." He lapsed into quiet thought, heavy eyes dropping to examine the wood of the barrel between the Warden's legs.

"Did he ever?" she asked, leaning towards him in curiosity.

Loghain shook his head and dragged himself out of his daze. "No, of course not. Rowan and I would never have allowed it. Though to be quite frank, it might have helped his balance on horseback. Maric could never stay mounted for long."

The Warden nodded in understanding. "It is…well, I'm really quite…tickled to be having this conversation." She chuckled quietly; stuffing what little remained of the cheddar into her tunic pocket for Dane. "Well, tickled isn't the right word. Enraptured, really. You're a living legend," she looked at him, tilting her head to one side like a baby bird observing its parent, "you lived that history: my history. It astounds me."

"Maker's breath, girl, don't be awestruck." Loghain pinched the bridge of his nose tightly. "We all did what we had to do."

"Even so, you pushed out the legions of Orlais with nothing but farmers." The Warden reached out her hand and gripped Loghain's wrist, pulling his hand away from his face. "I won't," she said in a soft voice, "bring this up again, but when you speak about them, I feel as though I was there and was a part of it. I grew up hearing these stories. You were with father and you fought together and there is a piece of him in that history. Perhaps the only piece of him that's left since we can't find what Howe stole…"

Loghain sighed. "You've made your own history…your father would be proud of that." He looked down into her dark eyes framed by her thick eyelashes…she was leaning so close to him in the narrow corridor that he could the see the speckles of yellow and brown that created the stormy grey of her eyes. He was not sure what colors made up his own cold blue.

"I hope so. I know that Fergus will do our name justice. At least," she looked away from him, shoulders hunched forward to shield herself, "he had better."

Though the Warden's tone had not been dark, Loghain couldn't help but feel there was some implied threat with her words. "And what's your threat to be then? To take Highever with an army of Grey Wardens and expand our territory?" He chuckled despite himself: she would probably never get away with taking the only other Teyrn in Ferelden away from its people; however, the Arls might actually _allow _it to happen, if it meant that one of them could be the next Teyrn. Politics were infinitely fascinating, Loghain thought.

"Yes, actually," the Lady turned her attention back to him. "If he runs Highever into the ground, he can be my steward."

"Ambitious! What happened to the scared girl who needed me to hold her hand only a few hours ago?" Loghain straightened himself the wall, watching as the Warden did the same directly opposite from him.

She shrugged. "I'm just grumpy." She was also beginning to feel the dull ache in her midsection that signaled her moon blood. Prior to becoming a Grey Warden, she had ached during her cycle. After becoming a Grey Warden, she ached _before _her cycle. The Warden had wondered if perhaps this was some side effect of the Joining and that the pain was the Taint corrupting her womb. Regardless, it was a curious set of physical circumstances, though emotionally she had not changed. She was still grumpy and irritable for a good week or more.

"When are you not?"

"You are just being mean."

"Young lady, haven't you learned that I am always mean?" And it was true; Loghain Mac Tir didn't have a reputation of being a "nice" man, though he was considered brutally efficient.

The Warden stood, bringing her arms slowly over her head in a stretch. "Stiff," she supplied, rolling her shoulders. "You are stiff too. Stiffer than my back."

He'd heard that word in association with him before. "I would agree with that assessment."

"Aren't you hungry?" The Warden asked suddenly, "the only thing I've seen you eat today was the cheese I gave you." The Lady watched him with a critical eye.

"I was up before you awoke and took my breakfast in my room," replied Loghain. "I can't say I've been feeling very hungry the past few days. I have never really enjoyed food, much less eating it."

"Why?" the Warden brought her hands to her hips.

"Because I haven't grown it." Loghain pushed away from the wall. "Food can't truly be appreciated unless you've got the soil it's grown in under your fingernails."

"Well, you've got plenty of dirt under them already," the Warden teased, eyeing his hands, "but I suppose I can understand your point. You were a farmer."

"I still _am _a farmer." Loghain put his hand to his chest, "always will be at heart."

The Warden gestured for Loghain to follow her down the hallway. "Let's do some more structural assessment and improvement as we talk. It'll be a better use of our time than being in a dim hallway just outside the kitchen."

Nodding his assent, Loghain fell into step beside the Warden.

"So, did you do much farming in Gwaren then?" asked the Warden as she led them along.

"No," Loghain's tone was clipped, "I never really had the time. I was mostly in Denerim, helping Maric run Ferelden."

"Did your wife do any farming? I heard you used to bring her rose bushes in your saddlebags."

"She did, yes. Celia loved to garden. She could make anything grow, no matter how bad the soil was…" The former Teyrn's voice softened, "I was a lousy gardener anyway. All I had to do was touch a rose bush and it would wither and die."

"My father felt the same way," the Warden smiled fondly, "and he'd often forget to walk on the paths in our garden, so he'd step all over mother's flowers."

"Heh," Loghain could not help but be amused at the similarities between Eleanor and Celia at times, "knowing her, she probably beat him black and blue for the trespass."

"Is that what they call 'it?'" The Warden's mouth puckered into a barely repressed smirk. "Well, I suppose in a manner of speaking. By the noise, I _used_ to think that mother beat father terribly at night for his mischief during the day. I was…mistaken."

"I…see." Loghain coughed to hide his surprise (and slight mortification along with…well, what else was there to say? For Loghain, it had been a long time.).

Lady Grey chuckled, having caught Loghain's look of horror from the corner of her eye. "Are you going to have bad dreams tonight?"

"Probably not," Loghain quickly changed the subject, "I don't dream."

"You would, if the Archdemon was still around," came the Warden's simple reply.

They were silent until they reached the door to the courtyard.

The pair spent the better part of the afternoon walking across the battlements and along the bases of Vigil's Keep's walls, reevaluating their earlier assessments of the structure with in the sunlight. Their previous attempts had all been done under cloud cover, and they could see now some cracks and crumbling they had missed before. Marking stones with a small piece of chalk they had borrowed from the Seneschal the day before, they located loose stones and discussed the improvements they could make if they had limitless funds. Thus they passed their time in dreams and dialog until the sun had begun to set and they were ready to take their dinner.

Loghain looked one last time over his shoulder at the field that lay beyond the walls, when his eyes were drawn to a curious glinting of grey in the distance. He caught the Warden by her arm, slowly pulling her back and pointing in the direction of his find. "Out there," he said quietly, "someone is approaching."

And so it was evening when Cauthrien arrived and she came with no fanfare. Having been spotted early by Loghain during their final assessment of the fortress's structural integrity, she was greeted by the captain of the guard and allowed to enter once her identity had been verified. She had ridden alone to Vigil's Keep with her arms and armor well polished, her pitch-black horse saddled for light travel, and hair newly shorn. If not for the full tilt of her lips and high features, the Warden might have mistaken her for a handsome young man because of her leanness and poise.

The Warden stood beside Loghain as they watched Cauthrien dismount, pull away her lone saddlebag, and nod courteously to the stable hand that was taking care of her horse. Loghain strode towards her as she approached, extending out his hand in greeting and smiling at her. Cauthrien extended her own hand, her face a mixture of pain and joy.

"It is good to see you again, General," Cauthrien said quietly, her other hand coming to rest on his shoulder, which she squeezed. "I regret not being there to see you off in Denerim."

"It is just Loghain now, Cauthrien, and I understand," said Loghain, "I've no doubt your hands were still busy with the mess made by the Darkspawn. I'm surprised you could even come."

"I resigned my commission when your summons came," she replied. "Without you, bureaucracy began to rule us." Cauthrien frowned, "no one was able to do their jobs anymore. I couldn't stay there."

"Then it is as I feared," Loghain sighed and shook his head, "hopefully they don't run themselves into the ground like last time." He gave a thoughtful pause. "I can guess why they did not look to you for leadership. My apologies, Cauthrien. I did not mean for Ostagar to haunt or hurt you."

Cauthrien ducked her head and shook it. "Don't apologize to me; I…know why you did what you did."

The Warden gave a polite cough from behind Loghain, eyes surveying the interaction between the two. She could guess what the hidden meaning was in Cauthrien's words to Loghain, if Loghain did not know already: _I couldn't stay in Denerim, because you weren't there. _"I am glad you could make it, Cauthrien." She stepped up next to Loghain, her own hand outstretched. "Loghain always speaks very highly of you, and I knew that there was no one better suited to helping us arm and train the Grey Wardens."

Cauthrien's eyebrow rose at the praise. "I…will train them to the best of my abilities."

"I know you will go far beyond your abilities," the Warden smiled wryly, "and if any of them are at least half the swordsman that you are, they shall be a force to be rivaled with. The Darkspawn beware."

"Ah," the former knight nodded, "yes. Darkspawn beware."

"You don't sound particularly pleased," commented the Warden, hearing Cauthrien's half-hearted tone.

Cauthrien shook her head. "Fatigue from the journey, that's all."

"When did you leave Denerim?" asked Loghain, brow furrowed in concern.

"About two and a half days ago." Cauthrien looked over her shoulder towards her horse, but the stable hand had already led it away. "Hadrias and I made good time."

"He is a beautiful steed, Hadrias," the Warden said appraisingly.

"Sixteen hands," supplied Loghain, having gifted the horse to Cauthrien himself, "and a marvelous destrier. Very well behaved."

Cauthrien nodded. "Very well behaved indeed. Did you ride Gharin here, Loghain?"

"I did." Loghain gestured to the relative direction of the stables. "It seems they are both unlikely to see their armor again anytime soon."

"That may not be so bad, they have earned their rest." Cauthrien looked between the Warden and Loghain, her brown eyes weary.

"And you have too." Loghain offered his hand to take the saddlebag that hung heavily on Cauthrien's shoulder. "We'll show you to your rooms."

"I will show Cauthrien to her quarters," corrected the Warden, extending her own hand for the saddlebag, "you should inform the Seneschal that our guest has arrived."

Loghain frowned in disagreement. "Doubtless he already knows by now."

"Well, even so. I am sure Cauthrien is hungry?" The Warden chuckled, "I know I certainly would be, if I traveled so lightly."

"I am a little hungry, but don't trouble yourself on my account." Cauthrien hesitated, not knowing who to pass her baggage to. "I can wait until morning."

"Nonsense." The Warden's quick fingers were already at the other woman's shoulder, working their way under the leather bag. "You can dine with us. Loghain and I haven't supped yet."

"All right," Cauthrien grunted as the weight was lifted from her shoulder. "If you just lead me to my quarters so I can freshen up, I will dine with you."

The Warden smirked at Loghain. "We will see you at dinner, Loghain. Right this way, Cauthrien. Follow me."

Loghain watched the two women walk away, observing how the Warden put her free hand on Cauthrien's back to guide her and how Cauthrien stiffened at the touch. The Warden was testing her boundaries and was probably getting revenge for her humiliating and brutal treatment at Fort Drakon….

No. Loghain pushed the memory out of his mind. The past was the past. He busied his mind by examining in acute detail the differences in the two. Where Cauthrien would walk in small precise steps, the Warden took long leisurely strides. They covered the same ground equally, but it was fascinating to observe the unconscious differences in the two and what they meant. Cauthrien had grown up poor and the Warden rich, and he could still see the traces of their upbringings in Cauthrien's cautious walk and the Warden's almost insolently bold gait.

Physically too they were different. Cauthrien was lean and broad in the shoulders, where the Warden was bulkier and wider in her hips. And while the former was swarthy like rich bitter beer, the latter was fair like summer ale. Together, they were an interesting set of contrasts. He hoped that despite their differences that the two could find some semblance of a friendship. This was going to be Cauthrien's home now too, after all. It would not do to have the Grey Warden Commander and the woman who trained her troops at odds. And if they should duel?

Loghain did not want to think of the possibility.

* * *

_"Oh no!" you say, "Not another verbose chapter filled with dialog!" Action soon! There will be action soon! Also, if there are still naughty comments left by my beta Lady Winde, my apologies. I think I got them all out though. As always, feel free to let me know what you're thinking and how you think the characters are evolving: I do love plotting and theory-crafting, it really gets the creative juices flowing!  
_


	16. Interlude IV

**Interlude IV: A Cold Night in Fort Drakon**

_ Alistair stirred slowly, his mind coming back from a haze of forced unconsciousness. The last thing he remembered was being in the entrance hall of Howe's estate, being beaten over the head with the pommel of a sword until he blacked out. It had been… he was frowning, eyes shut tightly with lids throbbing…what had it been? Why had he been there?_

_ A mission… it had been a dangerous mission. A mission that was betrayed. _

_ His hand slithered across the floor and he cupped his forehead with his palm. The movement felt smooth and fluid, like he was weightless. It was an odd sensation to him, since he had been wearing armor for so long. No jarring little pinches of flesh against leather and metal, no chafing, just flexibility and freedom. _

_ As he relished in the sensuous sensation, bits and pieces of a conversation long since passed floated back to him: _

"Surrender: you were holding the Queen captive."

"No, _you_ surrender. You were the one who imprisoned her in the first place!"

"My Queen, did they hurt you?"

Two women talking, one had been his Warden and the other, what was her name? He couldn't place it. Was it Katherine? Catrina? Quatrain? It had definitely sounded like a combination of the three. She was one of Loghain's Elite, his 'Lieutenant' and complicit in all his treachery. There was a third woman, dressed in guard's armor, selling them out, fleeing from the place as quickly as she could on her dainty feet. Loghain's daughter, _also _complicit in the treachery.

A trap. A set up. Everyone had known it.

He remembered the clash of steel as the two armed women fought. His Warden was a masterful combatant, well versed in protecting herself and her companions with the thick shield she kept slung across her back. The other, it seemed, preferred a direct approach and carried a massive greatsword. Together, they danced and dueled. Bracing herself behind her shield, his Warden weathered the huge swings of the other woman's sword and then would lash out from behind her protective cover to swipe at vulnerable, fatigued limbs with her sword as Loghain's Lieutenant recovered. It was a brutal affair and though neither was outmatched they were both undone. The Lieutenant could not breach his Warden's defenses, but nor could his Warden push an effective offensive counterattack.

_ Alistair's head ached as he tried to sit up. His fingers had found the lump forming on his forehead, sore and encrusted with dried blood. He winced as he pushed his hair out of the way to get a better feel, hair having been trapped under the large, half-clotted scab. He pushed his body up with ease and hissed in pain as a stiff, sharp pain lanced through his back and shoulders. He pulled himself into a sitting position and blearily opened his eyes. _

_ Mercifully, this place was dark, as Alistair didn't think he could stand the pain of any bright light source. The ache in his head was worse than any alcohol induced hangover from a night on the town, but he grit his teeth and suffered a more intensive look at his location. As he squinted out into the gloom, he could make out a small pail, a wooden bowl and the bars of…a cell. He was in a cell, by himself, and as the warm air of the room washed over his skin in a gentle caress, he realized now why it had been so easy to lift his arm to his head: he was naked. Well, almost naked, he still had on his smalls, but his armor (and weapons) was gone. Like the hot, thick blood trickling down the side of his face, more of his memories came back to him._

The two women had only been allowed to fight alone for so long because Alistair, Dane, and Wynne had managed to keep the Lieutenant's own battalion of troops busy. Where they were only four, she had brought fifteen. It was an unfair fight by all counts, but Wynne was surprising them all with her amazing grasp of the arcane. While a gifted mage, Wynne had often underplayed her abilities and so it always caught Alistair by surprise when the full force of her potential was unleashed. She had been able to isolate nine of Loghain's soldiers and immobilized them in some kinetically charged barrier that was maintaining all of her concentration to hold.

With nine soldiers out of the way, that only left six for Alistair and Dane to take care of. Alistair made it a priority to intercept the soldiers going straight for Wynne, while Dane acted as their main muscle by shredding tendons and throats with his sharp teeth. Dane was perhaps the most efficient killing machine that Alistair had ever had the pleasure to come across: the Mabari made no tactical errors and never missed his attacks. The canine's teeth always met soft, rendable flesh and in the time it took Alistair to block three parries and extend his shield to cover Wynne's vulnerable face, Dane had already mauled three of the soldiers to death. (Apparently, no one ever expected to have a very large, very angry Mabari launch themselves at their face.)

But the success had not lasted long. Wynne had released four of the soldiers from her grasp, likely expecting them to rush Alistair and Dane who were ready for them. Instead, the released soldiers had all promptly rallied to their commander and had swarmed on the Warden. Though locked in mortal combat, both women had become aware of their battle's extra players and adjusted their tactics accordingly. The Lieutenant's swings became smaller as she avoided severing the limbs of her compatriots, while the Warden worked on edging herself closer to her own companions.

Alistair watched the Lady regroup, bringing her shield tight to her body and stepping sideways to avoid being flanked. He moved to assist her, Dane at his heels. But with his attention diverted elsewhere, he did not notice that one of the guards had brought up a crossbow and had fired two bolts into Wynne, whose concentration was shattered at each impact. The older woman staggered backwards, clutching at her midsection as blood seeped through her fingertips. Alistair was only alerted to her peril by the growl of pain she had released as she fell back to the wall, and he looked back to her, torn between moving to assist her or their commander.

The remainders of Loghain's soldiers were freed now that the spell Wynne was channeling had ended, and before Alistair could come to his decision, they reached her. He watched his Warden go down under the assault of the Lieutenant's greatsword and her lackeys' tiny wasp-sting blades. In the chaos he had heard Dane growling, Wynne chanting, and his own enraged yelling, but he couldn't remember the details of what had happened to them. He had been cornered and beaten, but he'd lost sight of the others.

_ And so they'd been captured. Or at least, the soldiers had captured him. He didn't know if the others were there or if he was the sole prize because Loghain knew he was Maric's bastard child and saw him as a threat to Ferelden. But Alistair didn't believe he was the only one…they'd been after the Grey Wardens since Ostagar. Doubtlessly they'd taken Lady Cousland too, and perhaps even now she was being held in a cell similar to his. Maybe she was even just waking up._

_ Hopefully._

_ By the Maker he hoped against hope that she was at least safer than he was._

_ It chilled Alistair to the bone to consider the possibility that she had died and that he had been unable to save her. If she was dead, he was the last Grey Warden. What if they were all dead? What if Anora had sold them all out: no Eamon, no Teagan…all of his companions, from the Orlesian to the Qunari, they'd all be dead and he'd be alone. Well, alone except for Morrigan. He shuddered. Alistair was aware the Maker sometimes lived to torment him and the witch would likely find a way to survive anything. _

_ It was a struggle to push the morose thoughts out of his head. He had to remain positive, if not for his own sanity, than for hers if he ever found her in this place. He busied himself by formulating some escape tactics, mostly using the wooden bowl and pail that were located convenient on his side of the bars: maybe if he got one of his captors close enough, he could throw the pail on his captor's head and beat it with the wooden bowl like a chantry bell, disorienting his jailor and allowing Alistair to snatch the keys and earn his escape!_

_ The idea seemed ridiculous to him too, but his face was in too much pain to smile. He had the guard who had thrown him into the cell face first to thank for the bruising on his jaw. _

_ How long had been unconscious? Hours? Days? And where _was _he?_

_ "Hey look, Ray, he's up."_

_ A voice from the far right. Alistair swung his gaze to the source, noticing the two armed guards staring at him from their posts in the gloom. They were easy to miss, as their armor was black and grey and the room was decorated to match. Still, were his senses still so addled that he had missed a very important detail?_

_ "Don't say my name, idiot."_

_ "Right, sorry, Ray."_

_ If it wouldn't have been painful to do so, Alistair might have rolled his eyes. Great, he was being guarded by idiots. Shouldn't be too difficult to escape then, he probably wouldn't even need to hit them over the head with the wooden bowl at all. "And what're two upstanding gentlemen like you doing in a place like this?" he asked. "It can't just possibly be to guard little defenseless me." _

_ "Naw," said the first, "we just returned we did. We were escortin' the other prisoner to the Captain." _

_ The second one, Ray, the smart one, heaved a loud sigh. "Stop talking to the prisoner, you're going to get us both in trouble and we'll be the ones on the rack then."_

_ "Was just answerin' his question," grumbled the first. "Not as if he won't know soon enough anyway."_

_ Alistair's heart pounded in his chest. "The first prisoner? You mean you have two of us here?"_

_ "'Course we do." The first guard came close to Alistair's cell, looking down at him. "You and the other one were brought in yesterday. We 'spected you both to wake up sooner. Put the Captain's plans on hold, you did." _

_ From his vantage point and the guard's proximity, Alistair could tell that he was fairly young, perhaps no older than Alistair was. Thin blond hair sprouted from under his ill-fitting coif, and he had sparse tufts of a beard that he nervously pulled at. He didn't look like he was someone of privilege or station, which didn't really work in Alistair's favor. Still, he could make the most of it. Maybe he could convince this guard to help him, make him see that they were kindred spirits. "So, uh," Alistair dropped his voice low, eyeing the other guard suspiciously as he struggled to drag himself closer to the young jailor. "Where am I?"_

_ "You are," said Ray in a bored tone, understanding Alistair's ploy because he had probably seen it dozens of times before, "in Fort Drakon. And no, there is no chance you will be rescued. And come back from there, Ned. The last time you did this, you nearly got your neck broken."_

_ Inwardly, Alistair groaned. This was going to be interesting._

_ "Hey, you can't say my name either!" _

_ "Shut up and do what I tell you."_

_ The younger guard, cowed by the vicious look Ray sent his way, scuttled back to his post flanking the exit out of the room. _

_ Alistair cursed his luck. Fort Drakon? Of all the places in Ferelden, he would end up being taken here. They'd been in Denerim long enough to hear of Howe's depravity and what he did in this place: torture, murder, false confessions…If the Lady was being taken to the racks…"I hope you're not expecting a ransom," replied Alistair quickly, "Because in case you haven't noticed, I'm not the richest guy in Ferelden. The Grey Wardens aren't going to be paying anything for us." Which was true. Weisshaupt was not going to send any money to Ferelden, especially with its poor attitude towards Grey Warden. _

_ Ray shook his head at Alistair's statement. "Not your money the Captain's after, son." He shifted his spear from hand to hand restlessly, its base twirling and forming patterns on the dirty floor. _

_ "Enlighten me then if you would be so kind," Alistair pushed himself to his knees and forced himself to stand, grabbing the bars of the cell for support. His knuckles went white at the effort. "What's the Captain after?"_

_ "Information…about Orlais," supplied Ned helpfully. "General Loghain thinks you and the other Grey Warden are part of an Orlesian attack...a play to take over Ferelden."_

_ Heh, Alistair was unsurprised at the answer. Loghain hated Orlais with a passion and had been trying to pin the failure at Ostagar on the Grey Wardens and their Orlesian allies. It was absurd, the rest of the lies even more so, and he felt sickened that the Ferelden people could actually believe them. _

_ "It's a 'ploy,' Ned, and we don't actually know that," amended Ray, his tone stern, "that's just soldiers' hearsay."_

_ Alistair regarded the older guard with a critical eye: Ray was bearded and weatherworn, with a streaky, semi-polished breastplate and dirty, mud stained boots. While he did not seem particularly distinguished in appearance, his speech was precise enough and his stance strong enough to indicate that he wasn't an ordinary man. He was most likely a professional soldier, perhaps he even had a commissioned post, though why he was stuck guarding Alistair with someone who didn't seem to have even half his wits about him, Alistair couldn't guess. _

_ "It don't really matter. The Captain still wants to know about Orlais, so you better tell him all you know, or you'll be on the rack," Ned finished, perhaps a bit too gleeful at the prospect of a Grey Warden on the rack. _

_ "Somehow I get the feeling I'm going to end up on the rack whether or not I have anything to say about Orlais." Alistair chuckled, insolent despite his growing dread. "It'll be great though! I can't wait to stretch out my back, get all the kinks out from being tossed face first into this place." _

_ "You'll get your wish soon enough, Grey Warden." Ray inclined his head towards the exit, a dark portal illuminated by a few torches. "As soon as the Captain's done with your lady friend."_

_ Alistair's heartbeat pounded in his ears. _

_ "She was quite pretty, wasn't she, Ray?" Ned smiled, resting back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest. His spear clattered against the wall where he propped it. "Nice big hips for grabbin', nice big titties…"He licked his lips._

_ "Shut it, Ned." Ray's jaw (and Alistair's too despite his pain) clenched. _

_ Ned seemed unperturbed at the tone, lost somewhere within his own, deranged mind. "You think the Captain's goin' to make use of her?" _

_ Alistair's breath caught in his throat. Did he just suggest…_

_ "No, Ned, he won't," came Ray's terse reply, "and, before you ask, he isn't going to give her to you. Maker's breath," he muttered, shaking his head, "you're a sick son of a whore sometimes, Ned." _

_ Alistair could barely contain his rage at Ned's words. He felt powerless and trapped, and he knew that as much as he wanted to do it, throwing himself at the bars to get to Ned wasn't going to solve any problems. It would actually put his Warden in more danger, since if they knew what she meant to him, they would use her to get concessions out of him. So he bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check. Eamon would learn of his location and he'd be freed, and when he was he would be damned sure those responsible would be made to pay. He stewed in his silence, envisioning a world without people like Loghain Mac Tir and his terrible, nation-rending ambitions. _

_ And these thoughts were the only comfort he had when the first of her screams reached his ears. Alistair had distantly heard the far away sound of voices talking: a loud, brash male and a stern female. He had not been paying attention initially, since he hadn't recognized the possibility that perhaps it had been his Warden's voice he was hearing. He had, without thinking, ignored the voices as he plotted his revenge and their escape, and as a result he had not heard the subtle way in which the dull, muted conversation between the two had shifted into loud, accusatory tones and then into silence. Too late had he noticed the silence, likely her refusal to speak, her defiance. _

_ This is why he nearly jumped out of his skin at the scream; a sharp, high-pitched shriek that ended just as quickly in a strangled gurgling. It was as if the owner had suddenly had the ability to produce sound and then lost it again as quickly. Clenching and unclenching his fists, doing his best to ignore the pounding in his veins, Alistair had never heard his Warden scream like that, not for all the wounds she had sustained in battle. For the most part, she had been stoic and silent in her injuries. From stabs to slashes, she was quiet as a mouse. But… this? What was being done to her to make her cry out like that? _

_ The sound of something sharp whistling through the air followed by a flesh-searing _CRACK _slipped through the bars towards Alistair's ears. Ned giggled when he heard it, while Ray stood emotionless and passionless across from him. A disgusting set of comparisons: the soldier who signed on for inflicting pain and the soldier who signed on for what he believed in. Yet when an innocent woman was being tortured, which of the two was the better man?_

_ A longer yell came next, starting first as a low groan that ended with a full-fledged, throat-stripping scream. Alistair didn't need to be stretched out on a rack or poked with hot irons to feel tortured: he was already there. He had been there the moment they'd said she'd already been taken. They could do what they wanted to his body, but someone he cared for very deeply was in another room suffering, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He was angry and he was helpless, and likely she felt the same wherever she was. Was he imagining the sound of winches and levers being pulled? Of strangled, drowning cries for help?_

_Ned cocked his head to one side, examining the pitch and tone of the Warden's screams, the way they started softly and then rose into a cacophony of shrill pleading (I'm telling you the truth! Please stop! Please! Mercy, please! Mercy!) . "What do you think he's doing, Ray?" _

_ Ray pursed his lips. "Don't care. Don't want to know."_

_ "How long does the Captain take?" Alistair did his best to keep his voice even, to not give the game away. Fear and worry were eating him up inside, his stomach twisting in knots. "I'm getting bored just sitting around in this cell…I suppose I should have packed that toy golem when I had the chance." He couldn't help but wince as another set of screams pierced the air, punctured with cries of, "No! No! Please, no!" He did not think he could keep up any show of bravado, not with the sobbing and wailing coming from just down the corridor. _

_ "She's breaking pretty quickly. Hard to say," Ray watched Alistair with a curious expression on his face. He stroked the trim hair of his graying beard with a gloved hand. "Maybe another hour; a half if she's lucky."_

_ "What in Ferelden is he gaining from," Alistair paused, waiting for the Warden's cries to come again. And come they did, like thunder echoing off a cliff, "gaining from _that_?" _

_ Neither guard gave him a response; Ray merely looked at the stones between his feet while Ned picked at his beard thoughtfully. _

_ The pain in Alistair's head and the nausea in his stomach were too much, he sunk down to a crouch against the bars. Slowly he lowered himself to the ground, his arms coming to rest around his knees. He sat there for Maker knows how long, listening to the sound of his own breathing and his Warden's unsteady screams. They were growing hoarser, less frequent, and Alistair knew she was tiring of the torture, had been pushed past her breaking point long ago and was now…probably nothing. She would have to come back to him soon…_

_ And it was with some measure of relief that Alistair heard the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, the scrape of flesh against stone, and the scuffle of heavy boots down the passageway. He was not surprised when two new guards entered to take the place of Ray and Ned. They dragged the Commander, his Warden, in, by her upper arms, her feet trailing raggedly on the ground behind her. She hung limply, face mostly hidden by bloody, matted hair, not an ounce of fight or strength to be seen in her bones. _

_ She had been stripped like Alistair, and retained nothing except a scant piece of soaked fabric that covered her most private of places. It hung loosely around her hips, doing its best to conceal her with what little material there was. Ray opened the cell for the guards, sending Alistair a look of pity, before he passed the key off to one of the newcomers. Ned stayed a little longer, eyeing the Warden's bared and sagging chest with appreciation before he was also forced to leave. _

_ The Warden was shoved into the cell, and with no sense and no support in her legs she toppled forward like a felled tree. Alistair was quick to her side, pushing away the pain to attend to her. She was soaked, scratched, and skin was blistering along her hips. Her back and thighs were laced with whip marks, and he could see the deep cuts around her wrists and ankles that indicated tightly and poorly fastened manacles. An outstretched hand even revealed she was missing fingernails. Alistair dared not roll the Warden onto her back or side, given that she was in such an indecent state of dress, but from what he had seen of her when she was dragged in he knew that she sported at least one black eye and a split lip and that the burns and welts on her hips looked as though they trailed onward and upward to some place along her chest. _

_ "Hey ( 'my love,' he so desperately wanted to say), it's over, all over. You're safe, you're back." Alistair tried to soothe her with his soft words, gently resting her damp head in his lap, "You're with me."_

_ But the Warden was unmoving and her eyes were shut: she was completely spent. _

_ Despite the kindness with which he touched her and the gentleness of his voice, hot, vicious rage was boiling through his veins. When he escaped…when he was freed, and there was absolutely no reason as to why they wouldn't be, justice would be done. _

_ He took this thought with him as he was dragged off to meet the Captain himself, his eyes blazing. _

_ Justice would be done. _

_

* * *

_

_"Wow!" You say, "that was quick! It is like a TA fest this weekend!" It is, my lovelies, it is. Interludes are so much quicker and easier to write than the main story! We have Ostagar next though, folks, so tighten your armor and be prepared for some Darkspawn slayin' and political intrigue!  
_

_So here we have a slightly darker chapter to help offset the fluff we've been seeing recently...and from an Alistair point of view too, which I suppose helps make it fluffier. It _is _Alistair, after all. __Quite an interesting change of pace in both the writing and mood departments.  
_

_ Before everyone scuttles off, there's fanart and I loooove it. My Beta, the ever talented Lady Winde, has been kind enough to lend her imagination and artistic skills in the pursuit of some story fan art! Links to the pieces can be found in my profile. And just a quick explanation: no, the "Pear" you see in the comic was not used in this interlude (thank goodness) and the Warden isn't missing anything...for now.  
_


	17. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 **

The cold snap of the breeze against her cheeks brought the Warden out of her thoughts. Her mind had wandered back to the relative safety and warmth of Castle Cousland's hearth and how, when it had snowed, she had sat beside it to warm her frostbitten toes. She could still smell the cloying smoke from the wood and how it clung to her clothes and hair for days after, could still remember the tales that her father would tell as she sat perched on a small stool at his feet. He would tell her of the chilly winters they had faced during the War, of nearly starving and losing his fingers to the cold. He had made it humorous, as perhaps only Bryce Cousland was able to, and even though the stories were filled with horrific counts of life lost, as a girl she had laughed at them all.

Now she was beginning to regret laughing.

While it had been drab and overcast the last time she was in Ostagar, there had been no sign of the snow. Yet as she and Loghain led their horses towards the ruined citadel, she found herself knee deep in the crisp white substance.

"Dress warmly," Loghain had told her the night before they left, "Ostagar and the regions around it are bitter this time of year."

And dress warm they both had. Her thick cloak, crowned with soft fur, was encircled tightly about her person and she had opted for thick woolen socks for her boots, but alas, neither effectively shut out the drafty winds.

Dane seemed unperturbed by the cold, prancing around in the stiff mounds as if he had never seen it before. He bent down and growled at the snow, chomped at it for good measure, and then leapt into the next snowdrift ahead of them. He was perched on the fine line between the bridge and the ground.

"I want to put my hood down so that we aren't ambushed from behind," said the Warden as she cast a grudging glance at the bridge before them, which led straight into the heart of Ostagar and the Darkspawn infestation. "But I'm too damn cold to care. I'll have to sense them, rather than see them."

Loghain simply shrugged his shoulders. His hood was undrawn and his face was exposed to the elements. His thick black hair protected his ears and the back of his neck, but the hawkish nose he sported was being rubbed red and raw by the cruel wind. He was intent on the path ahead and the dangers on the road before them. Loghain Mac Tir had never really felt Darkspawn so _clearly. _

The Warden's horse whickered softly against the hood of her cloak, lips folding around the edges to gnaw. The Warden shooed the horse away with her gloved hands. "The horse is intent on eating me."

"I can't see why," drawled Loghain from ahead of her, voice muffled by a sudden gust of cold air, "you probably don't even taste that good."

The Lady grunted and pulled her horse more forcefully through the snow, mindful of not setting too fast a pace lest they both trip and injure themselves. "Dane," she commanded, whistling at the Mabari to come to her side and behave. He trotted towards her obediently, snow clinging to his mouth like foam.

The bridge that led to their destination was covered with very little snow, no doubt thanks to the swift winds of the area. It was easy to see which parts of the bridge to avoid, as in the cracks snow accumulated and formed a deceptively solid perch for an unwary foot or hoof.

Not that falling to their deaths was the only danger they faced. So far, the Darkspawn had given them a wide berth and made themselves incredibly scarce. The Warden could feel them all lurking just outside of her conscious range of thought, no doubt Loghain could too, but they felt distant and far away. They were scattered, clearly, but there was no reason to believe that this was a rallying point for them. The thoughts were too uncertain, too quick to change, to make the Warden believe anything else than the notion that the Darkspawn here had been left behind. They were confused: suddenly they had been Called, and then there was Silence.

And in the Silence, they were growing scared.

_Go not to Grey Ones, _their thoughts seemed to say. _Us but not like us; not friend. _

Loghain walked steadily behind her. "If we just follow this causeway ahead of us, we'll reach the main camp. Heh, it'll probably be difficult to find it now that it's covered in snow, but we'll make do."

"Do you want to take the lead?" asked the Warden over her shoulder, "as you know where you're going and I don't."

The other Grey Warden nodded, slinging his shield over his shoulder and letting it slip down his arm into his hand. The Lady followed suit, and together they marched one after the other across the frozen bridge, shields at the ready. The spires of the main citadel rose up in front of them, ragged banners and crude ladders hanging from broken edges. There were Darkspawn in those spires, but then there were Darkspawn everywhere, even below them in the deep ravine they crossed.

Some of the Darkspawn presences in the Grey Warden minds did not seem to be retreating as they advanced: curious, bold Darkspawn were lurking in crevices to look at them. Loghain's head rolled from side to side as he tried to spot where they were hiding, and he growled in frustration when he could not. Relative perception was not enough in the growing snow.

"They're not going to let us go on for much longer without interference," he said as quietly as could to his companion.

The Warden only nodded her head in response, her grip on the horse's reins loosening so that she could more easily draw her sword.

"There's not just the usual hurlocks and genlocks here, are there?" he asked in the same tone, something dark and oppressive appearing on the edges of his mind.

She had felt it too. The Warden had begun to distinguish between the different "feels" of Darkspawn: hurlocks felt a hazy red, while the genlocks were a strict grey. This felt like a nagging, buzzing yellow, almost like a wasp, prickling just out of her reach. It was a painful prickling too, filled with malicious intent and wicked thoughts.

"There is something out there that isn't very friendly," she replied with narrowed eyes, trying to shield her vision from the snow. "But I don't know where to find it…it is close, but it isn't trackable at this distance."

"Maybe it will come to us," Loghain gave a dark chuckle, "since from what I've been told, Darkspawn just can't seem to resist you."

"We'll see who the Darkspawn love more when they catch a whiff of you." The Warden allowed herself to smile, "Well aged, are you not?"

"And lacking any taste, if I take your criticisms correctly," said Loghain dryly.

"Oh you…"

They were at the edge of the bridge, barely two feet from the encampment site, when they were halted by the Mabari's warning. Dane stopped at the Warden's side, crouched forward with his teeth bared. He let out a low, warning growl, which was all the indication they had before the Ogre struck.

The yellow buzzing in the Warden's head roared to life as the ground shook under her feet. Loghain had freed his sword and released the reins of his horse, dropping his stance low to mimic Dane's. The silhouette of the approaching Darkspawn lumbered towards them.

"Dane, the horses!" she ordered, sending the Mabari to shoo the horses to safety like well-trained sheep.

The Ogre parted the snow as easily as one drew back a curtain, its massive shape revealing itself to them amidst the howling wind. It was a bright blue monstrosity with horns that rivaled even the most virile of stags, and the ogre roared at them, sending frozen spittle in every direction. It had no club, no accoutrements, by which to harm them with, save for its massive hands with their sharp tipped fingers.

"Your plan?" asked Loghain, yelling over the roar of the Ogre.

"Don't get caught," returned the Warden with a shout, "try and flank it. And strike for the head or heart!"

"Noted."

The Warden brought her sword pommel down on the front of her shield: _CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! _ She got the Ogre's attention, seeing the massive head swing towards her. She spread her legs and tensed the muscles in her thighs, ready to spring into action. The Ogre took a step towards her, and she took a step back to accommodate the change. She could feel the Ogre's shifting intentions like the caress of a fish underwater: slippery and numb.

Dane, having forced the horses to the far end of the bridge, had returned and slipped behind Loghain, picking an obtrusive path around the side of the bridge to appropriately follow his mistress's orders. Every step forward the Ogre took facilitated Dane's movement and within a few steps of the Warden's strange dance, Dane was in a position to strike.

Loghain was caught balancing on the edge of the bridge, doing his best to also make himself unobtrusive. He did not quite have the ability of the Mabari to sneak around, but he had fought in enough battles to make himself look like a less of a threat. The Warden had puffed out her chest and was yelling at the Ogre, keeping its thoughts purely on her, rather than on the two figures that were slipping behind it. She was doing an excellent job of taunting it, for it stopped every few minutes to smash at the bridge with its fists, howling at her in rage.

"I've killed plenty of you!" the Warden boasted, "Ogres, Hurlocks, Demons, and Broodmothers! And you'll be next!"

Doubtlessly, the Ogre did not _understand _the words she was saying. It _did _understand the intent in her tone and in her mind. As strong as any catapult or machine of war, it brought both fists above its head and slammed them against bridge, sending the Warden into a knee-shaking crouch.

Loghain realized that, if the snow had not packed itself into the crevices, if the snow had not formed the thin, insulating blanket along the bridge stones, then the war worn bridge would have cracked and eventually sent them all to their deaths. So long as she kept dragging him along from support to support, never allowing him to strike the same place more than once, they would be safe.

Clever Warden.

"Your mother was a genlock, you son of a motherless ogre!" the Warden taunted (Loghain grimaced), placing a cautious foot behind her as the Ogre took several steps towards her. She watched the creature slowly bend forward, huge knuckles scraping the snow from the bridge. Lethal horns were pointed towards her.

Dane seized the opportunity to strike and launched himself at the back of the Ogre's exposed neck, teeth sinking into the purple flesh. The weight of his charge and the savage swing of his head sent a chunk of Darkspawn flesh flying over the edge of the bridge leaving a trail of black droplets on the white snow. Dane's paws slipped and skidded along the stone around the Ogre's feet as he worked to get away from the massive Darkspawn.

The Ogre roared in pain, swiping blindly at the Mabari who was no longer in range of its fists, and staggered around to find the annoying animal. A nipping at its ankle caused the Ogre to swing an arm backwards to catch the dog, but no sooner did it do so that it felt the sharp sting of steel in the vulnerable hollow of its wrist. The Ogre wrenched its arm forward, felt the tension on the other hand of the blade in its arm slacken, and spun quickly for a beast of its size towards its attackers.

Loghain's shield arm came up and he braced it with his free hand, his sword lost somewhere in the Ogre's flesh. He brought it forward as the Ogre spun, using the beast's own momentum as a weapon. As the Ogre turned to face him, jaw pushed out defiantly, it received a face full of his shield. Loghain was shoved back with the force of the blow, his arms aching from the impact.

Before the Ogre could focus on Loghain, Dane was back to attacking the vulnerable spots of the Ogre, this time with his mistress beside him. Loghain could see the Warden's lower half in the space between the Ogre's legs. Her sword was hacking at the backs of its knees, Dane working at its ankles. By the sudden roar, Loghain knew they'd done something to wound it.

The Ogre kicked out a leg, catching Loghain in the chest, winding him and throwing him back several feet, as it toppled backwards. The tendons and ligaments in the back of its thick knee had been severed by the twisting and scissoring of the Warden's sword.

The Warden and Dane had scuttled out of the way of the falling Ogre and had both been eager to strike once it was down. The Warden had noticed a poorly healed wound on the beast's chest and aimed her blade to strike. As Dane launched himself at the Ogre's face, his teeth ripping its eyes open, the Warden brought her sword down into the partially healed wound on its chest.

Her blade sunk quickly and easily into the pre-parted flesh. She sunk all her weight into the blow, and then pulled all her weight forwards and backwards into the blade to slice at the Ogre's vulnerable insides. One of the Ogre's fists smacked hard into her back, sending her sprawling forward over the pommel and impaling it deeper into the beast's chest. Before she had struck, the Warden had slung her shield onto her back and it was this small mercy that was stopping her spine from being snapped at each impact.

This was the Ogre's ultimate undoing. Each time it swatted at the Warden, it only served to drive her sword deeper and deeper into its chest, until finally the tip of her sword pierced the large, thick organ that was its heart. The Ogre's fist gave a final, parting blow to the Warden's back before it dropped to the ground at its side: dead.

"Loghain," called the Warden wearily, struggling to pull her sword free and regain her balance. By the pain in her shoulders and back, she knew that she would have an interesting bloom of bruises.

"I'm here, girl," Loghain limped towards her, having aggravated a once badly healed knee in the fall. He retrieved his blade from the Ogre's far wrist, wiping the blood on it the weird garment the beast wore on its shoulder.

"Some help?" she gave a weak tug on her sword, her arms weak and trembling from the exertion of stabbing and steadying.

Loghain grunted his assent and stepped beside her. Their combined muscle lodged the sword free of the Ogre's chest. Blood continued to seep from the wound, turning the area around them sticky and black. Dane pranced around the growing pool of blood, barking at it when it came too close.

Muttering something about, "getting the horses," Loghain picked his way back across the bridge.

The Warden cleaned her blade in the snow as she waited for him to return, her armor creaking in protest at the crouch. She took a few deep breaths before standing again. Blade still at the ready, she winced as she slipped her shield down from her back and into her arm. Despite the beating, the shield bore only a few shallow dents. Master Wade truly did know his craft.

"Horses are spooked," said Loghain from behind her, "but none the worse for wear, it seems." He touched her shoulder to get her attention and offered her the reins to her steed.

The Warden switched her sword to her shield arm and took the reins of her rather terrified horse. It rolled its eyes until she could see the whites, braying with each step it took further into Ostagar and the danger it could sense. Truthfully, the way that Dane pranced between its legs was not helping.

Loghain led the way through the ruins, and though each could feel the presence of the Darkspawn nearby, the Darkspawn did not seem intent on attacking or revealing themselves. They were waiting in their dark places.

The Warden recognized their location by the relative chaos of the half-burnt tents and scattered defenses. She could clearly see the quartermaster, where she had first encountered Daveth and the Tranquil who had graciously enchanted her blade free of cost. The platform where the clerics of the chantry had given their evening sermons was partially collapsed, and the Warden could see the state of Andraste they had constructed at the base of the stairs where she had first entered. It was decapitated; the fair face of the Maker's Bride with her impossibly lovely hair was missing.

In its place, on a pike perfectly positioned just behind the statue to give the illusion of a face, was the head of Cailan. The former king's mouth hung open, tongue swollen and pushed out through his decaying lips. The eyes were sunken and shriveled, and the once luxurious blonde hair hung brittle and dry against his sallow face.

"Maker's breath," said the Warden, eyes wide at the image of her former monarch's head. Torn between frost and decay, it was a ghastly sight.

"He could have had a worse fate," said Loghain quietly, eyes darting only once to look at the boy he had called his son-in-law as he passed.

The Warden frowned but said nothing. Every corner Loghain had her turn she half expected to find Duncan's impaled head to greet her. Fortunately, all she found were roughly placed barricades and singed bedrolls. She recognized the area ahead of them as the main campground of the soldiers. The tents that had once sheltered them from the rain of the area were now nothing but piles of evenly placed ashes. Swords and armor littered the spaces between the tents, though this place did not smell like a battlefield. There was no sweet carrion smell here, no caw of crows.

There were no corpses. The only sign of human remains they'd come across had been Cailan's head. Ostagar was a battlefield without a single sign of casualty. The few signs that anything had occurred here were the refuse of battle, the litter of the soldiers and the Darkspawn excrement.

Two half-burnt structures loomed in the distance: the first was the Teyrn's tent. The second was the King's. Loghain's pace quickened and they approached the ruins of the King's tent. Items had been strewn around the area between the tents: clothes, ornaments, maps…

Loghain passed the reins of his horse to the Warden so that he could conduct his search properly. Sword in its sheath and shield on his back, he picked his way carefully through the debris, his eyes fixed on finding the object that burned in his memory. He bent low many times to push back soot and snow, thinking he had at long last discovered what he'd come for.

With a triumphant, "Aha!" (That caused the Warden to jump several feet into the air in surprise.) Loghain found the chest he had been looking for. He knelt before it, smoothing his hands over the top to push away the snow. The Warden stood with her sword and shield drawn, protecting his back as he did what he had to. Their horses flanked her on both sides, their heads shaking and hooves pawing at the ground nervously. They began to whicker and neigh into the wind, but the Warden silenced them with a sharp click of her tongue. Dane was mimicking their movements, though he had the sense to quiet his growls. His stumpy tail flicked around in agitation.

"Does it require a key?" asked the Warden tersely, her eyes darting across the battlefield in wariness. More Darkspawn were coming to alive at the far corners of her mind, as if they were crawling up from the earth, awakened from their slumber. But these new Darkspawn were not approaching …yet.

"Yes," Loghain stood and drew his sword. He propped his boot on the lid of the chest and angled his sword into the locking joint. He levered himself backwards, coming to rest nearly on top of the Warden until the hinge on the lock gave way at the weight. He knelt down again, dragging out a small cloth sack from a fold in his cloak. "Flimsy Orlesian craftsmanship."

"Hurry," the Warden's grip on her sword tightened. The same yellow buzzing that she had felt at the arrival of the ogre mage had returned: but there were five distinct buzzes. "They're regrouping; I think they're on their way."

Loghain dug in the chest, pulling out piles of papers and what was likely Cailan's journal, shoving them all haphazardly into the sack. A particular letter caught his interest: a fine sheet of delicate, yellow paper inlaid with some sort of gold speckling. He stopped what he was doing, lifted it, turned it to its reading face, and put his eyes to work. The writing on the letter was swift yet elegant, and it did not take Loghain long to decipher its meaning or its intent.

"That bastard," Loghain clutched the missive tightly in his hand. "I was right."

As Loghain had been satisfying his curiosity (and the Warden wanted to satisfy hers, too), the Darkspawn presence had been steadily growing, not just in number, but in boldness. The mass was moving, coming their direction and it was interested, and it was _hungry. _

"Loghain," said the Warden, tone stern, "we can't linger here. For our safety, we have to go. _Now._ They're on the move, coming from the east. They'll be here within minutes. Please, stop what you're doing."

"Just…" Loghain grimaced, jamming the rest of the chest's contents into the bag. "Just let me put these documents into my saddlebag."

"No time," the Warden stepped carefully up onto a series of overturned crates, calling her horse over to her with a series of clicks. "Have to mount up and go." She swung her armored leg over the back of her horse, settling herself in the saddle.

Loghain, who did not have the same Darkspawn sensing abilities as the Warden, could not understand her haste to leave. But at hearing the distress in her tone, he mimicked her movements and mounted his own steed. He tied the sack shut firmly to one of his belt loops. "Where do we ride?"

"Anyway that isn't east," responded the Warden quickly. "Do you know a path out of Ostagar that will take us westward to the road?"

Loghain shook his head. "No, I don't, but I'll get us there anyway. We'll risk a hard ride through the woods and near the tree line where the snow is thinnest and then cut to the road when it's warmer."

"Dane will help us find the safest path. Lead on, gentlemen," she let the reins slide through her fingers, "I am right behind you."

They both brought their horses to bear, and with Loghain taking point, sped their way across the snowy cobblestones of Ostagar. Dane sprung forward in the wake of Loghain's horse, ushering it along terrain that the Mabari instinctively knew was safe. For Gharin's part, he did not seem to mind being driven onto and off course by the large war dog, probably from a lifetime of training beside them.

They left behind them a mass of clamoring Darkspawn, who had too late realized their intrusion and had thusly missed a meal. A few readied bows and fired groggy, ill-aimed shots at the retreating Grey Wardens (one of the arrows had a lucky path and nearly pinned the Warden to her horse, if not for Dane suddenly altering their course). The Darkspawn returned to their warm homes in the earth, awaiting another summons or disturbance to rouse them from their slumber.

Perhaps the Funny One with his strange tongue would return to them...

As it was, it was several hours later that the two Grey Wardens felt comfortable enough to slow their pace and return to the familiarity of the road. Dane had tired considerably at the burst of action and kept a slow and steady pace for them to follow. Both Wardens dismounted from their steeds, Loghain out of necessity for his destrier and the Warden out of courtesy, and walked on foot side by side through the silent, snowy landscape.

The Warden bumped Loghain's shoulder with her own, laughing in well-earned relief. She had never _outrun _Darkspawn before, having only been on foot every time she fought them. The new sensation of freedom was liberating. Her laughter echoed down the road in front of them, beckoning them along the path towards a non-existent home and hearth. Loghain endured her jocularity with a bitter half-smile, his mind focused on the contents of the bag that swung heavily on his hip, his duties as a father and a protector of Ferelden forcing his gravity.

The Lady, ever sensitive to the moods of those she traveled with, did not pry into Loghain's deep thoughts. But by the gentle touch of her body against his, she let him know that she was there if he needed or wanted her. By blood and by friendship, she was bound to help him…though if Loghain acknowledged the sentiment, he did not show it. He kept his head bowed and his eyes focused on the ground ahead of his feet.

One step at a time, the companions kept up their silence all the way to the mages and their Circle Tower on the misty shores of Like Calenhad.

* * *

_All right! We are on our way to exciting times at the Circle Tower! Expect to see your favorite mages and favorite templars make some cameos. Chapter updates may be sporadic over the next couple of weeks, since I won't have time to write at all next week. Still, I'm really pumped for the next plotline so when I do get time, it should be a breeze to write. Also, fanmix! It can be found in my profile. _


	18. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 **

It was evening when the two Grey Wardens arrived at Lake Calenhad. The moon had just begun to rise over the Circle Tower, casting its reflection in crystal clarity across the surface of the lake. The Tower itself stood sentry in the middle of the lake, watching their approach with the pained gaze of practiced temperance. Walking side by side, their horses trailing after them with Dane bringing up the rear, they came to the small settlement that boarded the lake's shores. Quiet in the pleasantly warm evening, they approached the small inn with its creaking sign.

The breeze drifted over the water towards them, sending the sign swaying back and forth on its hinges. There was a cool tingling in the air and the smell of old, ancient magic in the wind; it pinched at exposed skin and prickled on the tongue. It unsettled the horses, who pranced and pulled away from the Lake, eyes rolling back into their heads to expose their milky whites.

"They're up to no good in there," said Loghain with a look towards the tower. He was working to tether Gharin to one of the assorted hooks on the side of the inn, but the warhorse was protesting at the idea of spending the night in full view of the mage's tower. He pranced away from the tethering post and only came to submission when Loghain managed to snap the blinders on his bridle into place. Running hands along the horse's thick neck in reassurance, Loghain brought his steed close enough to the post to tie a quick, efficient knot. Gharin exhaled and stamped at the earth his hoof before he bent down to drink at the trough in front of him.

The Warden was doing the same to her horse, carefully tying the palfrey beside Gharin and stroking it into languid submission for the evening. The palfrey backed its rear into Gharin's side and grunted at him, but Gharin seemed uninterested in the attention and kept to his slow, steady drinking.

Loghain chuckled. "I'm glad it's you going in there and not me."

"This should be nothing compared to the last time I was here," replied the Warden with a crooked smile. "I don't relish the idea of entering into the Fade again."

"Thank goodness for you this is just a social visit," Loghain shrugged his saddlebag over his shoulder. "Do you want me to book a room for two, or one?"

The Warden raised an eyebrow, "and what does that imply?"

Loghain startled at her response. "Wh-what? I meant, should I get rooms for both of us, or will you be staying with the mages?"

She laughed quietly, "I'll be back in a few hours, so get us two rooms." She pointed to her own saddlebag, "So don't forget mine while you're at it."

"I'm not here to be your bloody packhorse, girl," grumbled Loghain, shuffling towards the door of the inn. "Bring it in yourself when you return." He clucked his tongue at the Mabari, "come along, you. Your mistress doesn't want our company anymore."

Dane barked, trotting after him.

"Farewell to you too, darling! Take care of Dane for me!" called the Warden over her shoulder as she picked her way towards the small pier not more than a stone's throw from the inn.

"Hail, Grey Warden!"

The Warden smiled as she approached Kester, greeting him kindly in turn. "Kester! It is good to see you again. How have you been?"

"Well enough, I 's'pose. Things have been quite all right up until this morning. Bad things are happening up there with the mages, but it isn't none of my business." He gestured to the boat behind him, "I take it you'll be wanting to cross?"

"I would yes, if you don't mind."

Kester nodded and turned his back to the Warden, bending down to begin unfastening the rope that kept the small boat tied to the pier.

The Warden slipped beside him and carefully lowered herself into the boat, her arms coming out to steady herself as it rocked with her weight. "Forget how heavy this armor makes me sometimes."

"And you're not even in all of it," replied Kester with a smirk, "those templars have managed in this boat well enough, and you have too. So don't let that pretty face come to wrinkles over it."

"I'll do my best," the Warden settled her arms on her knees, watching Kester coil the rope and place it into the boat at her feet. Far nimbler than she, Kester was quick to sit opposite her and take the oars of the boat in hand. In companionable silence, the pair rowed across the expanse of the waveless lake Calenhad towards the Circle Tower. The dark trees that lined the lake were nearly invisible at this distance and were just a shapeless black mess. The only other light they had beyond the moon were the lanterns winking at them from the Circle Tower's small dock and the reflection of the moon winking off the highly polished armor of the templars standing watch outside.

For his age, Kester was just as quick to get out of the boat as he was in, deftly mooring them to the pier at the base of the island where the mages made their home. "You can find your way up to the entrance, aye?" Kester offered her a hand, which the Warden gladly took as she half crawled-half rolled onto the pier.

"Yes," the Warden nodded when she righted herself, "I know the way. Thank you, Kester. I'll probably be here for a few hours, so no need to wait for me."

"Anytime, Grey Warden. Take care in there!"

She gave Kester a fond wave before turning her attention to the stone path that led around the small island to the entrance of the Circle Tower. There were many templars out around the grounds of the tower, either patrolling or standing around in small groups. None of them stopped her or paid her a second glance; she was without her helm and so easily recognizable. Many of them were likely already acquainted with her from the last time she was here putting a stop to the madness of Uldred. Not even when she approached the grand entryway did anyone stop her, and the two templars at guard on either side of the door obediently let her pass.

Inside the grand foyer a cluster of mages stood. Amongst them, the Warden saw, was Wynne. In fact, Wynne seemed to be leading the hushed discussion with her peers. They all appeared to be looking at her, as if waiting for her response to some great question. Wynne's mouth was half-opened to speak, but after a few moments she closed it and shook her head. A collective sigh emanated from the mage group and each in turn shook their heads in disappointment. A few of them filtered away down the main corridor while the others retreated to a book-lined alcove.

"Wynne?" called the Warden in a voice that sounded very small to her own ears. "Wynne, is that you?"

Wynne turned at hearing her name and gave her visitor a tired smile. "I did not expect to see you here, child."

"I was in the neighborhood." The Warden approached the other woman slowly and extended her arms to embrace her. "On my way to Orlais. It is good to see you again, Wynne."

Wynne allowed herself to be folded into the young Warden's arms. "It is good to see you too, Aurora, though I wish it was under better circumstance."

"I hear that a lot," replied the Warden dryly. "Come, tell me. It can't be that bad, can it?" She released Wynne, ducking her head to come to an earnest eye level with her.

Wynne placed a gentle hand on the Warden's shoulder. "Child, remember when I said you had a habit of becoming involved in business that you shouldn't?"

"Yes, I do. You told me that quite a bit." The Warden chuckled. "Are you telling me this is business I shouldn't dirty my hands with? That I should…walk away?"

"I want to but I…suppose I can't." Wynne sighed. "Terrible things have happened here."

"I could have guessed that," the Warden cast her eyes around the receiving room, "the chill of magical discontent has spread past the lake and up onto the road."

"I don't have much time to explain it to you since I am supposed to be meeting with Greagoir and Irving about the matter, and," Wynne's shoulders drooped, "no doubt they will both explain to you the gravity of the situation."

"I can turn around and leave," said the Warden quietly, "we can pretend I was never here if it makes you feel more comfortable."

"No, that won't work." Wynne shook her head. "Both the Knight-Commander and the Senior Enchanter are aware of your presence here. I just hate to keep involving you in these matters when you must have so much else to do."

"Don't feel guilty. If I didn't think I could spare the time, I wouldn't have stopped by to see you." The Warden's smile was reassuring. "Now, tell me what's the matter or would you have them blindside me?"

"Three mages were found dead early this afternoon."

The Warden blinked in surprise. "That is terrible, Wynne! What happened?"

"We have been attempting to divine that answer." Wynne placed a soft, white hand on the Warden's arm. "Three mages are dead and one templar is missing from the duty roster. We mages are quick to draw conclusions, and the templars are far faster to deny them."

"You think the templar slew them?" asked the Warden, dropping her thickly gloved hand over Wynne's.

"Terrible things were done to these girls," replied Wynne quietly. "Depraved things. I hope that more will be revealed soon. Irving should be giving Greagoir the report from the diviners as we speak, and I have been asked to attend." Wynne gazed at the floor.

"Well, let's not be late!" The Warden gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Come; let's go listen to what the other enchanters had to say. Perhaps this isn't templar maliciousness. For all we know, it could have been a…" she searched for some of the terms she'd overhead the last time she was here, "weak spot in the Fade. Possession, even."

Wynne shrugged, as if to say, "Only the Maker knows," and picked her way down the main corridor to Greagoir's office on the first floor garrison. The Warden dogged her steps, following her through the open doors.

Irving's office was as much as the Warden expected it to be, having seen it from her first visit to the place. His desk had been righted to a standing position and the few unbroken decorative pieces of Chantry motif were carefully arranged on the shelves around the room. A stack of papers stood squarely in the middle of the desk and staring down at them was the Knight-Commander himself.

Irving was also in the office, and he had his mouth open as if he had been in mid sentence before they entered. "Ah, Wynne," he said, "I am glad you could join us. And you, young lady," Irving inclined his head in greeting, "hello to you again, Grey Warden."

"Hello, Senior Enchanter," replied the Warden back quietly, raising a hand in a small wave. "It seems I have come to visit at a bad time."

"Or your timing could have never been better," Greagoir's eyes flicked up from the stack of papers towards her. "I ask for a miracle and behold, here you arrive again."

The Warden looked to Irving for explanation.

"You do arrive at the most fortuitous of times, child." He gave her a weary smile, "I hope you won't mind us asking for your services once again?"

"Well, that would depend on the service," the Warden responded carefully, remembering to choose her words carefully.

"If Wynne there hasn't already told you, then you should know that a series of murders have occurred within the Tower. Several apprentices have been found dead and a templar is missing from the barracks," explained Greagoir, "we need to know if this templar had a hand in their deaths."

"I have had diviners in the locations where the girls were found," added Irving, "gathering energy for study. However, we have no one to study it."

"This is going quite over my head," the Warden shifted her weight between her feet awkwardly, "what exactly are you asking me to do here?"

"Ah," said Greagoir, understanding her discomfort, "We need you to study the energy, the…memories, for lack of a better word."

"How would I do that?"

"You would be sent into the Fade," Wynne supplied.

The Warden frowned. "Why do I have to go into the Fade? Why wouldn't another templar or mage do it?"

"The times have changed." Greagoir sighed, "Normally, we would not trust this matter to an outsider, but we are in the middle of a revolution. The mages will be free and the templars will have no one to guard them. Breaking the status quo often has dangerous repercussions, and we are standing on the knife-edge of disaster. If a mage were to condemn a templar with the murder, his brothers and the Chantry may not heed it. The mages might see this as a rebuke of their freedom and we would be at war."

"All right," the Warden chewed on her bottom lip as she considered the scenario. "I understand the political ramifications."

"Allow me to put this in better a better perspective for you. You are an impartial person in this matter, Warden," said Irving with a knowing gaze to Greagoir, "you have friends amongst both the mages and the templars. There is no doubt about your integrity, and you are…sensitive to the workings of the Fade. No one would dare doubt your word, not the Hero of Ferelden."

"I do not follow you, Senior Enchanter," the Warden's arms crossed over her chest.

"Whatever it is that is done to you to make you a Grey Warden makes you sensitive to magic," explained Greagoir. "What Irving is saying is that you're not only impartial, but you're the only candidate we can trust to send into the Fade."

The Warden paused as she considered the Knight-Commander's words. It made a lot of sense, actually, given the proclivity to dreaming she had acquired since her first tasting of darkspawn blood. Still, there was the matter of returning to the Fade, which set the Warden on edge. "I will do it, if it means resolving this issue," the Warden sighed, "but I feel uncomfortable entering the Fade on my own again."

Irving smiled at her, "I assure you, child, that what you will see today will be nothing like the last time you were in the Fade. The mages will shield you from any outside meddling, allowing you to simply watch."

"You make it sound so simple," the Warden frowned, "all I have to do is watch?"

Wynne, Greagoir, and Irving all nodded.

"Just watch and report back what you see." Greagoir set a level gaze on her, "every detail is critical."

"I…" the Warden bowed her head in reluctant acquiescence, fear gnawing at her gut. "Very well."

"Let's proceed to the Harrowing chamber then," Greagoir's tasset clattered against his legs as he moved from his position behind his desk to the door. "I've assigned my best templars to watch the Adjudication."

"And my diviners are there preparing the draught," said Irving, following at Greagoir's side and out the door.

The Warden looked at Wynne, who was regarding her with a concerned gaze. "What is the Adjudication?"

"A very old ritual," she explained, "one put into place to resolve conflicts of interest between the mages and the templars that watch them. An impartial observer is sent into the Fade where the series of events in question take place. The Adjudicator sheds light on the conflict, and either affirms one party's story or denies it."

"Did such a thing occur after…?"

Wynne shook her head. "No. It did not; it did not have to."

"Am I at risk to be…possessed?" The Warden had felt the chill in her bones sink downwards to her toes.

"Not anymore than you were before."

"Well, I suppose I have little choice." The Warden sucked in a deep breath of air. "I feel like I should not be so nervous, but I am terrified."

"You have a healthy respect for magic and the Fade, as perhaps only someone who understands the Maker's wrath as you do could." Wynne gave her a small smile. "I will be with you, as will a few familiar faces."

"That is a little reassuring, at least." The Warden frowned. "The Adjudication ritual seems very…convenient. Why wouldn't you use it all the time?"

"I'll explain while we catch up to the others." Wynne passed towards the door, "this way."

The Warden fell into step beside Wynne as they weaved their way through the circles of the Tower. Up and down the seemingly endless staircases and through the spiraling corridors they passed up towards the top of the tower.

"This place is built on a weak point in the Veil," Wynne paused in thought, "or it has become a weak point in the Veil given the nature of what occurs here. Either way, rituals such as that of the Adjudication will only work in places where the barriers between this world and the next are thinnest. Echoes of very emotional actions transcend the barriers, and we are able to see them during the ritual." She led the Warden up a steep set of stairs that they both remembered as leading to the top most room, "You could not use such a ritual for a petty crime, or to listen in on conversations heard in other rooms, since such things lack the emotional catalyst for an imprint."

"Like writing on a stack of papers with an angry hand and then finding the message on the first sheet carved into the second and third sheets?" The Warden hummed over her metaphor, seeing Wynne nod at the comparison. "Curious. What do you use the Adjudication for then, if it can only be done when the event in question is highly charged?"

Wynne placed her hand on the great oaken door that separated them from the Harrowing Chamber. She turned weary eyes to the Warden. "Mostly it is used for mage-templar disputes, since such conflicts of interest leave especially resonant imprints. The practice has fallen in disfavor though, mostly because the findings of the Adjudication are usually ignored by the Chantry. For some reason, they always find some fault in the Adjudicator."

"Does the Adjudicator have to be a mage?" the Warden placed her hand beside Wynne's.

"Or someone sensitive to magic. A mage or a templar will both suffice, as you will have to. Mages are often the better choice." Wynne's smile was wan. "You can see why the Chantry might disregard evidence found during the Adjudication."

The Warden nodded.

"Whatever happens," said Wynne quietly, "do not lie."

The Warden looked taken aback by this. "Why would I lie?"

"Because I know you," replied Wynne. "And I know what lengths you would go to."

"I…don't know how to take that," the Warden frowned, canting her head to one side. One of the small braids at her temple became dislodged from behind her ear and dangled down the side of her cheek. "Should I - "

"Take it as a compliment," advised the old mage with a sad smile. "Now, are you ready?"

The Warden shrugged. "I am ready, you can open the door."

Wynne did as was requested, and both women stepped through into the Harrowing Chamber. It had been well scrubbed since the last time the Warden had seen it, and the horrors of Uldred seemed to be forgotten. The floor was polished into an immaculate shine, and looking down the Warden could see her own reflection in the dark blue stone. Greagoir stood in the center of the chamber flanked by three templar, and Irving stood across from him with two mages at either side. The Warden recognized Elissa, her healer from Denerim, and smiled at the woman. However, Elissa only gave her a pained gaze and wrung her hands tightly before her.

Between Irving and Greagoir stood a pedestal upon which a faintly glowing goblet rested. The Warden winced inwardly. She would probably have to drink that.

"The ritual has been prepared," Irving gestured to the goblet. "At your leisure, child." At the movement of his hand, Elissa and the other mage began to chant. At the sound of their words, the faint glowing in the cup began to brighten until it outshone the small candles that flickered along the walls.

The Warden eyed the fully armored templars with some trepidation, slowly inching forward to the pedestal, one foot in front of the other. Her footsteps felt slow and heavy in the oppressive air of the Harrowing Chamber. The words, which the Warden did not understand, washed over and around her. At times, she thought she could _almost _hear the syllables "Grey Warden" escape the mages' lips. Her steps faltered when something in the goblet began to fizz and pop.

One of the templars removed his helm and passed it to one of his brothers. He gave her a reassuring smile, having seen the reticence at which she approached the shimmering goblet. The Warden couldn't help but smile in return, recognizing the fine, tanned features as belonging to Ser Bryant. His long brown hair hung in a thick braid down his neck, but the same stubborn wisps of hair she remembered from the Lothering Chantry had broken free.

Thoughts of the Adjudication vanished at his kind eyes. "Ser Bryant, you - !"

Greagoir frowned. "This is not a social call, Warden." He extended his gauntleted hand to the goblet. "Drink it; we do not have all evening."

Chastened, the Warden nodded in reluctance, ducking her head in embarrassment. Her hands came up to cup the goblet but they shied just short of touching it. The cold sting of the magic permeated through her thick gloves, and her fingers twitched in stubborn disagreement with her course of action.

Greagoir coughed and the Warden felt the presence of someone beside her. With the rustling of armor, Ser Bryant was settled to her right, his own gloved hands reaching for the goblet.

Taking it carefully from the pedestal, he offered it to her with a wry smile. "Drink it quickly; it probably won't taste very good."

The Warden nodded her thanks and took the goblet from him. She lifted it to her lips, her breath sending cool waves of tingling energy across her face as it disturbed the liquid. She closed her eyes against the glare and did as Ser Bryant had suggested. In one large gulp, she had drained the contents of the cold, viscous liquid. She felt it slither down her throat and pluck at her insides. She gave a visible shudder and handed the goblet back to Ser Bryant, just as her legs gave out from under her and she toppled onto him, lost in the Fade.

8-8-8

_ The Warden was standing in a corridor. It looked exactly like one of the many she had passed through in the Circle Tower, nondescript save for the curious tapestries here and there. She tried moving her feet, walking, but found herself fixed firmly in place. She moved her arms next and found them pinned to her sides. Her eyes would not shut, her mouth would not move, she was paralyzed, all-seeing and mute in this replica of the Circle Tower. _

_ Ghostly shapes drifted by her; she was having a hard time discerning what they were saying. She could see one of them very clearly: a pretty, young girl with luscious hair and exotic features. Her eyes shone luminous and blue in this replica, and they regarded the world with wickedly sinful intent. She parted from her smoky, faceless companion and disappeared through a door to the Warden's right. Words whispered in her ears: Tahirah. The mage was Tahirah and she was beautiful. _

_ The Warden tried to follow but again found herself rooted to the floor, and resigned herself to merely watching. _

_ A few moments later, the heavy clunking of ironclad footsteps reached her ears. A templar had rounded the corner. He was in his full livery and one hand twitched nervously at the hilt of his sword. The Warden recognized him as the trapped templar just before the Harrowing Chamber. Cuthbert, was his name? No…the Warden frowned (but couldn't really), that was not it. Culled. No…Cullen. Yes, his name was Cullen. _

_ Cullen stopped abruptly, his sword drawn as if he'd heard some sudden noise. The door that the girl had stepped through previously opened, and the mage revealed herself and the loaf of bread she had in hand. _

_ What transpired next sent the Warden's head spinning. _

_ The two were conversing, or rather, she was conversing but Cullen was shouting. As if under water, she could vaguely hear accusations of, "You're stealing from the kitchens!" and gentle responses of, "Oh but Ser Cullen, I am so hungry…" Tahirah was nearly mute, her words and intent lacking the necessary emotional component to burn them into the Veil, but Cullen's words came through as though he was standing before her in the flesh. _

_ Tahirah's bright blue eyes were obscured by the way she lowered her lashes seductively at the templar as she broke off a piece of the bread and offered it to him. "You used to greet me with a smile in your eyes, Cullen…"_

_ Cullen was looking at her wide-eyed and snatched her offending hand by the wrist, "D-don't you dare think to touch me, Demon!" he hissed. "I have seen your kind before; you'll not hide from me again." He squeezed her tightly, the bread dropping from both hands as she reached up to slap him. _

_"Is this how you treat all women you love or just me? Another time I'd have enjoyed being manhandled by you, but no. Not now. Not ever. You've changed." The mage's words came through more clearly than before, "Whatever changed you, ruined you, Cullen. I'll not stay here to ruin your mood further. Let me go." _

"_You have no power over me, Demon." Cullen wrenched Tahirah's arm forward, causing her to fall against the cold, unyielding metal of his armor. "You'll never control me again. I will purge you from her flesh and mine!"_

_Tahirah's words were muffled by the sound of Cullen's other hand coming up to clamp over her mouth. He backed them into the room where Tahirah had come from. _

_ The Warden felt herself being pulled by her throat into the next room, and her feet slipped along the stones after them into the darkness and the relative quiet of this rarely used storeroom. Once more rooted to the floor, the Warden could do nothing else but watch Cullen's brutal assault of the mage, of the demon he thought she was. _

_ Was it justice that Cullen wanted to rape a Desire Demon for the brutal mental torture he had endured? Of the stripped privacy and shame he had been forced to suffer through? The Warden thought that perhaps if she had been a less-sheltered girl she could come to appreciate the irony. But this was an innocent woman, screaming futilely against the gloved fingers that Cullen had shoved down her nose and throat as he roughly stripped her. Hands glowing red and orange were no match for the templar's brute strength. He had her well and pinned to the floor, unable to know any other world except the push of her hips into the stone and the push of his hips into her. _

_ The Warden could not look away, could not scream, could not interfere in this echo. She watched him take her, listened to his taunts of, "You have no power over me anymore, Amell!" and heard her muffled, choked pleas for help. She fought and was beaten, her face pressed roughly into the ground, and when finally he was done, she watched him unsheathe his sword and impale her from stem to stern. Weakly she clutched at herself, bleeding inside and out, as Cullen sheathed his weapon and rearranged his armor. He left, locking the door behind him, leaving Tahirah Amell to die in a dark room by herself. _

_ With no choice but to follow, the Warden felt herself dragged by her throat through the corridors of the Circle Tower. She was whisked quickly up stairs and through rooms, the air smoky and thick around her as the hallways blurred by. She found herself alone in a room with another mage, pieces of ruined statues piled neatly into various corners. The Warden recognized one of the shattered faces as being that of Andraste, and she knew then that she was in the Circle Tower's chantry. _

_ The mage was on her knees on the floor, a large scrubbing brush in hand as she set to polishing the floor. Her robes were threadbare and worn, and her hair was tied up with a bright red scarf. She remembered the heart shaped face and kind eyes from Denerim. This was Winifred; no wonder Elissa had been so unhappy, her apprentice – her friend – was dead. _

_ As before, the world was silent. Vaguely could the Warden hear the scratching of the bristles against the stone, but the scrubbing was soon drowned out by the sound of quick footsteps approaching. She braced herself for the arrival of Cullen, who stormed into the room chanting prayers. _

_ "Blessed Andraste, protect me from the - "_

_ Winifred's head raised; she seemed startled at the sudden intrusion. As she stared at Cullen over her shoulder, her lips moved but no sound came from them. The Warden strained to read Winifred's lips, but alas, it was not a skill she had acquired. Had she told him he should not have been there?_

_ Cullen shook his head violently, his voice cutting the silence with ease. "No! I will not listen to anymore of your lies! You are the one who should not be here, defiling this holy place!" _

_ "What?" Winifred frowned and placed the brush to her side. She gathered her skirts and moved to stand. "I have every right to worship, if I so please. The Maker loves me just as much as you."_

_ "That cannot be so!" Cullen pointed an accusing finger at Winifred, "it was you and _your _ilk that brought this place down. The horrors that your kind have unleashed on this world are unforgivable. You're nothing more than conduits for evil." _

_ "Cullen," Winifred said softly, hands out before her in a placating gesture, "I know you have been wronged by magic, but you have to remember our lessons." The Warden watched her approach the angry templar, murmuring soothing words of comfort, speaking to him with surprising familiarity. "You have to be strong, remember? For Greagoir. Greagoir is counting on you… You have to be strong for Amell; you know that she wouldn't want to see you like this."_

_ "Amell…Winifred," Cullen clutched at his head, still moist fingers gripping his hair, "I…I've done something terrible."_

_ "What have you done?" Winifred asked, spreading her hands out in front of her as a gesture of peaceful intent. _

_ "I can't tell you. You'll tell Greagoir!" He drew his sword, eyes wild. "I've already said too much!"_

_ "Cullen…" Winifred said calmly, "point your sword away from me. You know that I mean you no harm. I am your friend, and I am your healer."_

_ "You can't tell him!" Cullen advanced on her. _

_ "I won't tell him what you did," lied the mage, slowly backing away the closer he came, "now put the sword away, please."_

_ Cullen shook his head, "No, I can't trust you. Mages can't be trusted."_

_ Winifred's hands glowed a bright blue, icy tendrils stretching out from her finger tips down towards Cullen's feet. "I have NEVER betrayed your trust."_

_ Cullen kicked at the forming icicles, "You told Amell, and look what happened! None of this would have happened if you could have kept your word!" He dropped one hand from the sword's hilt and with a forceful shove of his palm, sent radiant energy between them. The icicle chains disappeared. _

_ "I didn't say anything to her! I promise! That she knew of your attentions was nothing more than her intuition." The blue glow of her hands was gone. The Warden saw Winifred's shoulders sag as if suddenly weary. "Remember what is reality, Cullen!"_

_ Cullen had backed her up to the wall, forcing her to inch sideways away from his approaching blade. "They taunted me with visions of you too, you know," Cullen said slowly, "it was not just Amell they tortured me with." He seemed to laugh as he watched her small hands come up to bat the blade of his sword away. By the way her eyes widened at the sight of the sticky, stained steel, the knowledge of his deeds was not lost on her. _

"_I am very sorry, Cullen, that this happened to you." Winifred winced as her finger tips sliced along the blade's point, "But I am not a vision of the Fade, I am Winifred, and I exist in the present. We're in the Mage Tower, and you are breaking so many rules right now." _

_ "There is no rule against slaying mages," he hissed, having trapped her squirming body between the wall and one of the last few statues of Andraste that still stood. Slowly the point of the sword pressed into the thin fabric of the robe at her stomach. _

_ Winifred lurched forward in fear, her fingers gripping hold of the statue as a means to propel her away from the crazed templar. But Cullen had stepped on the hem of her long robe, and she tripped. She fell to her knees, arms clutching at Andraste's white hips as Cullen sliced up her back. Blood splattered across the back of her neck and onto the immaculate robe of the Maker's Bride. She slumped forward against the statue, eyes pressed together tightly, her cheek resting on the cool marble of the sculpture. _

_ The Warden raged against her paralyzed state, howling inside the prison of her dream mind at her inability to act. She could almost feel the scrape of Cullen's blade against the promising mage's spine, the hot splatter of her blood against her flesh; she wanted to scream. Most of all, she wanted to kill him. _

_ "WINIFRED!"_

_ An elven mage stood on the opposite end of the room. _

_ The third apprentice slain. _

_ Cullen turned his attention away from the bleeding Winifred, sword readied. _

_ "Surana…" coughed Winifred, "RUN. Get…help. He's killed…"_

_ "You said you wouldn't tell!" Cullen whirled back to her, frothing at the mouth in anger, "I knew you couldn't be trusted!" Before she could protest, he brought his sword down upon her, slipping it through her back and out the front of her chest. He wrenched it sideways, hearing the snap of ribs and the gurgling hiss of a last breath. _

_ The elf, Surana, needed no other invitation to launch her assault. _

_ What else could the Warden say about the following fight, other than that it was a massacre? It was clear that Surana was the youngest of the three and her mastery of magic still not fully realized. Half of the spells she sent at the templar missed, while the other half fizzled away before they could even start. Her emotions were not fueling her ability it appeared, but rather hampering it. 'NERIA-NERIA-NERIA' called the dying spells to the Warden, 'Her name is Neria, and she is young but brave beyond her measure.' _

_ But braveness was not enough. Every spell failure allowed Cullen to inch ever closer until finally he had crossed the space between them. The Warden desperately wanted to intervene, to shout at this girl to run, but she could do nothing more than stare transfixed at the scene. It was with rabid ease that he brought his sword against her, severing her pretty head from its slender neck. It rolled through the air to the wall, spraying across the room in a shower of red. _

_ And as the Warden felt her feet leave the floor and the world spin around her, all she could see was that same vivid shade. _

8-8-8

The Warden came to consciousness with a start. Her cheek was pressing into something skin-warmed and hard. She stirred, rolling to her side and felt the hard stone tiles of the Harrowing Chamber beneath her fingertips. The horrible events of her time in the Fade came flooding back into her mind, and she clamped a hand over her mouth to unsuccessfully stop the vomit and bile from spewing all over the floor. It trickled through her fingers as she choked and gagged, spluttering for breath, and came to splatter at the floor before her knees.

Ser Bryant knelt beside her, his hands gingerly on either side of her face to hold back her loosened hair. He looked between Irving, Wynne, and the two other mages that made up the divining committee. "Is this normal?"

Wynne nodded her head, coming to kneel across from him on the other side of the Warden. She placed a hand on the Warden's back as she heaved. "Just a side effect of the lyrium," she soothed, "she'll be fine soon."

But the Warden shook her head violently, croaking out a, "NO," before she sent more lyrium-tinged vomit sparkling across the floor. "Hedidterriblethings." Her fists clenched on the floor. "He did TERRIBLE THINGS TO THEM."

"What did you see, child?" asked Irving.

"Irving, give the girl a moment," scolded Elissa, her face etched in worry.

"His urgency is well-placed; we are on borrowed time here. Every moment we linger means that justice is out of our reach." Greagoir sighed, "so what did you see, Warden?"

"I saw," said the Warden, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, "him, Cullen, do…awful things to those girls." Her grey eyes were wide and her vomit-yellowed teeth bared, "R-raped them," she ground out, "mur-murdered them. _Hid _them," she hissed. "Coward."

"So it is true," Greagoir shook his head, his shoulders sagging, "the boy had lost his mind."

"Lost his humanity!" Elissa cried, her composure gone, "he cannot retain it after what he's done."

The Warden pointed a finger in the direction of Elissa's voice to signal her agreement. "N-not human." She shook her head rapidly from one side to another, sending her small braids swinging.

"I see no reason to doubt the Warden's words, Greagoir," Irving sighed, "so it is as we feared. A templar has slain three mages and fled."

"Didn't see where," the Warden pulled herself to rest back on her knees, her body shaking, "otherwise would go myself."

"Would you really?" Greagoir shared a look with the Senior Enchanter. "That would make this a lot simpler, if you could continue as our free agent."

The Warden bared her teeth. "Point me in the right direction."

Elissa supplied the information: "The eastern shore."

The Warden stood, shaking off the assistance of Ser Bryant and Wynne as she did so. "Get me a boat."

Ser Bryant raised an eyebrow at the viciousness in her tone, "we'll get one for you in the morning."

She shook her head. The Lady was not having any of it. "Now. I'll lose him come dawn. In the dark, he will be forced not to wander. He is only a few hours ahead of me."

Ser Bryant looked to Greagoir and Irving, both of which nodded their heads. "Very well, my lady Grey Warden, I shall take you to the boat myself." He offered her his arm, but the Warden declined with a chilly gaze. He sent Wynne a worried gaze as he escorted the Warden out of the Harrowing Chamber and the Circle Tower, down to the docks. "Carroll will take you across to the eastern shore," he explained, receiving only the briefest of nods from the statue-like Warden.

And like the Warden, Carroll was not in a mood to speak. He stared at her with a sullen expression, obviously regretting his current assignment, as he rowed them with long, well-paced strokes. The Warden did not look at him; instead, her gaze was transfixed on the dark expanse of the approaching forest in front of them. Her grey eyes seemed like liquid in the moonlight, so quickly did they dart and follow every slight bump in the terrain.

Inwardly, the Warden was cursing her luck. The bright moon that had greeted her arrival at Lake Calenhad was now shrouded in heavy clouds. It made the night almost pitch black, and she was grateful that she was not encumbered by her vision-obscuring helmet. She knew it rested safe and sound in a well-cushioned sack on her saddle.

The small rowboat scraped along the rocky shore, indicating that this was her stop.

"I've been ordered to wait here until you return," said Carroll glumly, eyes staring at the wood between her knees. "Be fast, if you would."

The Warden gave him an impassive gaze. "I'll return when I return."

He stared at her in a sour fashion. The man the Warden was after was probably his friend.

Lady Grey turned towards the dark woods. She was a fool for going out, especially in the dark, and without assistance, but Cullen was ahead of her and had only a few hours' worth of a head start. She was angry, however, so that made their relative distance traveled about equal. She'd find him, no matter the cost.

Cullen had likely not considered the possibility that Greagoir and Irving would send anyone after him immediately due to the unrest he had sparked with his parting. The templars were offended by the idea of the newly liberated mages hunting one of their sworn brothers, while the mages were outraged at their resistance. If it had been three templars raped and killed by a mage, the templars would have had no trouble bringing the mage to justice. Irving and Greagoir were doing their best to handle Alistair's monumental transition, but this "outside" solution solved both their problems.

Also, Cullen had not expected the Hero of Ferelden and her legendary powers of persuasion to enter Lake Calenhad. Whatever escape he planned to make during the catastrophic blow out between the Chantry and the Circle was going to be foiled. The Lady would see to it. She would make him pay for his crimes, even if it meant seeing that justice was done herself.

She mused this as she picked her way through the foliage. The trees on this side of the lake were densely packed and, in the dark, it was hard to discern the relative shape of the terrain. The copses of trees crawled their way up the steep incline of the hills that shielded the lake on this side, though the Warden had no idea about the depth of the slope. She felt ill prepared to traverse this landscape in the dark, where every rustle of the wind through the leaves and snap of twigs in the forest set her nerves on edge.

But she was brave (among other things), and the fiery disgust in her gut gave her resolve. She followed the terrain upward, doing her best to silence her noisy footsteps. If she was having trouble, no doubt Cullen was too. And something told her that he was not going to flee the area. His life had been invested in this place; he would not abandon it quickly. No doubt he really was camped nearby and dwelling on his deeds.

The Warden had passed perhaps a little more than a mile upwards into the trees when she caught the flickering of lights in the darkness. She pushed forward to investigate. As she neared, she could see the illumination of a hastily cleared campsite. A very small fire burned in the makeshift clearing, a bedroll and pack tucked neatly by. A gust of sudden wind sent leaves scattering from the trees down into the clearing and on top of the Warden's head. She jumped at the sensation.

"Cullen," the Warden called quietly, stepping into the light of the campfire. She slipped her shield off her back and drew her sword, "I know you're out there."

"Did Greagoir or Irving send you?" came Cullen's response from somewhere in the darkness.

"They both sent me." The Warden carefully circled around the campfire, her eyes directed out into the darkened wood so as not to be blinded by the glare of the firelight. "It is time for you to return to the Circle Tower and answer for your crimes."

"I won't go back there," replied Cullen after some length. "Besides, killing mages is no crime."

Lady Grey grit her teeth, "you will come with me peacefully."

"No."

"Then show yourself," taunted the Warden, "you coward. Is raping and killing young girls what the Maker would have you do to enter into his favor once more?"

"They were not women, they were _mages_!"

"And you are not a man, you're a _monster_!" she cried back into the darkness. "Fight me for your freedom!" She battered her sword against her shield. "Or shall I report your cowardice to Greagoir as well as your incompliance?"

Cullen appeared across from her on the other side of the campfire looking haggard and drawn. He wore a determine snarl to his lips, "you will not report _anything _to him." He raised his own shield and sword.

The Warden side stepped the barrier of fire between them and advanced on him. She stepped forward, slashing upward against his unguarded leg. Cullen's shield swept down to knock the blow aside, his own sword coming up to parry the downward arc of her blade. He snapped his shield forward, aiming for her knee, but found nothing but empty air as she repositioned and spun away.

This routine of slashing and shield pummeling carried on for a few minutes, with each fighter evenly matched in their dance. The Warden's skill and experience were great, but she was fighting with a clouded head and a disadvantage. Cullen's skill and experience were less, but he was fighting for his life and therefore found himself on equal footing with his distracted opponent.

One particularly clever counterattack from the Lady sent Cullen's sword spinning wildly out into the woods and she gave him no quarter to retrieve it. Every time he darted after it, he was chased down and hacked at by the Warden. One of her swings caught the back of his thigh and he stumbled forward onto his bedroll. His hands frantically tangled in the thick material.

"Fitting that I should slay you here," snarled the Warden as she advanced on him, "as you lay cowering in your bed before me." She brought her sword down onto Cullen, who had at the last minute flipped onto his back with his shield pressed over his torso. The Warden's blade skimmed and skirted along the shield, slipping along the edge and cutting into one of Cullen's high cheekbones.

The Templar hissed and gave the Warden no room to pull away. He grabbed her sword arm and dragged her forward onto him. At the same time, he pulled a glass vial from behind his shield and sent the contents splashing upward into the Warden's face.

At first, the Warden felt nothing. But after a few moments, she screamed, abandoning her shield and sword in favor of clutching at her burning face and the blue fire that seemed to crawl through her eye socket and into her brain. This felt like nothing she had ever experienced before; she just had no memories of pain so intense, so…raw. She struggled forward on her knees, her tears, and pain blurring her vision as the agony swept over her. She howled, clawing and mopping away the burning liquid with her dirty gloves. Every jostle of her head sent rivets of ice down her spine and lava through her all her waking senses. She wanted to fight Cullen, she wanted to kill him, but she would have _relished _Cullen's killing blow even more. Anything to end the misery.

And so she waited for the strike, clutching her ruined face and bellowing her anguish as her body twisted and writhed on the forest floor. She wanted the pain to stop, but more than anything, she wanted her mother.

_

* * *

So, it was quite the wait for an update, but at least it was a nice long chapter! A lot of bad things happened in it, albeit, but they will all be resolved soon. Sadly, I think there's more action and plot in this one chapter than in all the other chapters of the story combined thus far, heh. Much love goes to Lady Winde for being my beta and fielding my rather weird requests for RP and advice in the wee hours of the morning. Tahirah is also her Amell. As always, feel to let me know how I'm doing and what you thought._


	19. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

She had been screaming for days.

She should have had _nothing left _within her_, _but she still kept _screaming. _

They were hoarse and terrible things, from a throat naked of skin and lined with blood.

They were not the terrified screams of young girls, afraid of the monsters that lurked in the shadows, or the screams of loss and wailing heard on a battlefield. They were the screams of agony, of death, of torture. Men who had had fires lit below their feet screamed this way; men who had their entrails pulled out inch by inch screamed this way; men who had their flesh stripped piece by piece from their bones _screamed this way. _

Wynne rested her forehead against the thick door that separated her from the howling in the other room. Though the Tower was itself quite cool, sweat beaded her brow and she wiped it away with the back of a long green sleeve.

She was worried.

They all were.

Slung over a grim-faced Loghain's shoulder like no more than a grain sack, the Warden had come to the care of the mages with only half a recognizable face. Her right side remained lovely in every possible away, the high cheekbone and elegant brow pretty despite their pained contortion. It was only the hideous bleeding and bubbling of meat on the left side of her face that marred her complexion. Sticky and blistering with puss, the burn wept as did the ruined left eye that sizzled in its socket.

It was a horrific disfigurement, but it would not be unmanageable. For Wynne, who was the surest of hand and strongest of talent in the healing arts, such a wound would be difficult to heal but not impossible.

Or so she had thought.

None of Wynne's current efforts (any of the Circle's combined efforts) had so far been successful in mending the flesh. Every time a cantrip fell upon ruined skin, the wound only worsened. Their spells caused the Warden unmatched pain, for as magic touched her skin she became delirious and vocal of her discomfort. It had gotten so bad that her cries had begun to scare the apprentices. Some of them were so shaken by the banshee wails that they refused to walk through the corridor where Wynne stood, fearing that the Veil had swallowed it and demons roamed the stones. Not even the presence of the templars assuaged their fears, and they instead took the long, dark passageways lined with dust and cobwebs to their quarters and duties.

The magic that cursed the Warden was a vile thing, though recognizable. Irving had been the first to spot it, but they were all confused as to how a templar had gotten his hands on such a terrible piece of hidden, forbidden magic.

Cullen had, according to some careful scrying, entered into the basement storeroom of the Tower, and had taken as much lyrium as he could carry. Amongst his swag, he had a test sample of a potion that Uldred had presented to the Circle a few weeks prior to his demonic submission.

"_A marvelous thing!" _he had said. _"A lyrium serum that taints the very essence of magic, that defies it." _

Irving and the rest of the Circle had shaken their heads and had forbidden him from continuing his studies. There was no reason to have such a weapon, for why would mages wish to create substances that defied magic? Mages had no reason to fight one another.

Uldred had stopped his testing (and turned to _other _means by which to wage war on fellow mages) but didn't destroy his work. Instead, he stored it. Careful studying of the storeroom had shown the presence of small, innocuous vials that contained his mystery solution. That Cullen had found one of them in his haste to leave was coincidence; that he had somehow known what it was suggested something more sinister than mere luck.

Since magic failed the mages, they had turned to more conventional salves. The Warden's face was purified everyday with the cleanest of waters (the slightest jostle of her head caused her untold agony), and this eased her suffering for a small amount of time. The balms and baths did little to soothe her skin, but they were slowly absorbing and eating away at the dark magic that lingered in the poor girl's flesh. Every spell the mages cast after a cleansing seemed to be more effective, but their efforts were blocked by the simpering and crying of the Warden who was in pain despite their efforts. She begged for the pain to end, and the healers obliged her. For Wynne especially, it hurt her to hurt the Warden, even if it was for her own good.

They tried putting her to sleep, but conventional sleeping draughts had failed. Tinged with lyrium to create drowsiness and open the doorway to the Fade, they kept the Warden asleep for a few moments at best. It was never enough time for serious work to be done.

The mages had decided, rather Elissa had decided, that the Warden could no longer linger in such an existence. Magic was doomed to fail, Uldred had seen to that, but nature would not. Elissa had gone deep into the woods and picked potent herbs that she was sure would force the Warden into slumber. Brewed without lyrium, this sleeping potion was guaranteed to bring the Warden a peaceful rest and buy the mages enough time to work. They were on borrowed time already.

None of them could delay any longer with the healing; they were nearing that critical point where the wound would be too old to heal cleanly. Magic could reconstruct the shapely Warden's face, but that was only if her wounds remained "fresh." If the draught took effect, then the discomfort the Warden's crying caused would be removed, allowing them to do their jobs.

This is why Wynne stood perched outside the door. She had given the Warden the potion. And as she heard the long, slow wails of agony slowly subside into nothing, she quickly turned on her heal and moved with much haste to gather Elisa and the others. It was time.

And so she brought the other mages to the Warden's room, and there they cast their spells. Slowly the flesh began to reshape and reform, the muscle and skin smoothing layer-by-layer back into place. The delicate eyebrow began to regrow, the lips plumpen and moisten. From crusted red, to tender red, to flushed pink her color went, and all was well except for the ruined and scorched eye that sagged in its socket. The lid sunk deep and the thing had festered. It was damaged beyond repair despite their efforts.

It was with a heavy heart that they removed what was once the Warden's eye. On her left side, it had guarded her shield and kept her safe from harm. Without it, she would be vulnerable to attack and unable to safely wield her sword and shield. She would be a liability to Ferelden, to her own health, in such a state. But Irving had feared such an event would come to pass, and had crafted secretly a new eye for the Warden, made of the grey quartz that came to this region naturally. He had enchanted the false eye with a sightless sight, with strongest perception magic he could muster. The magic of the natural eye was the Maker's secret, and its talents were not replicable. But this poor imitation would serve its purpose well enough, and grant a shadow of the Maker's gift. With great care they planted the stone in the empty socket.

Throughout all of this, the Warden had slept soundly. Unaware of their efforts and free of the pain, she lay in the deepest of repose for days. And when it was that she awoke, it was to soft sheets and whispers. Across her eyes and nose lay a cool compress, and she felt the unmistakable poking of rushes and straw in the back of her legs. She was abed, and she was comfortable.

"I am glad I brewed it longer than usual…"

"I am too."

She stirred, fingers flexing against the soft bedding. Her hands smoothed over her stomach and chest, slithering and plucking at the sheets. Her stomach rumbled at the contact.

Cool hands met hers, and slowly drifted over her chest and up her neck to stroke at her cheeks. They were cold, and soft, and smelt faintly of earth and magic. They trailed a pattern over the cloth covering her nose, up her forehead, and danced over her eyebrows gently. Passing over her temples, they touched her hairline and then vanished.

Groggily, the Warden opened her mouth to speak, but found her left cheek stiff. It felt as though someone had placed a thick stone upon it, or had laced it up tightly with string.

"Your cheek has healed, but it will take some getting used to. The skin is quite tight," said the familiar voice of Elissa.

"All right," the Warden said, but it came out as an indecipherable croak. Her tongue and lips were thick and dry, her throat raw and husky. The Warden winced, her cheeks pulling up with much strain. Elissa was right, the skin was tight. Something cool pressed against the Warden's lips and her tongue tasted bitter, salty water.

"This should help ease your throat," said Wynne quietly, "drink it down."

The Warden pushed herself up on her elbows, taking the cup from Wynne with one hand while her other pulled off the cloth that covered her eyes. She smiled at Wynne in thanks, and then horror.

She was only seeing Wynne with one eye.

The Warden's hands shot up to her face, the mostly full cup falling into her lap and spilling the liquid down her front. It made a heart-shaped stain on the chest of her white shift. Her fingers poked and prodded at the baby smooth skin of her cheek as they came up to fondle her eyes and eyebrows. Her right eye felt fine and saw fine, but the left eye…was not an eye. Cold and smooth against her fingertips, it pulled and dragged like marble against the inside of her eyelid. She could feel its presence, but she could not feel _it. _ It was alien inside her head.

"What…" the Warden's face contorted in horror, her voice still low and thick, "what's happened to me?" She turned her face to Wynne, looking at her friend for explanation. "What have you done to me?"

"We," said Wynne gently, "have healed you. You were injured fighting Cullen," her face turned upwards into a mask of disgust, "and he threw a vial of tainted lyrium into your face."

"It burnt half your face off," added Elissa as she tended to the spill the Warden made, "but we healed the damage. It took days to find a solution." She pulled a small handkerchief from a fold in her robe and mopped at the Warden's neck and chin. "But we did." She smiled, though it was a small, strained thing. "We saved your face."

The Warden stared between the two women who sat side by side in their white wicker chairs in uncertainty, not quite believing the words.

"Do you want a mirror, child?" asked Wynne, seeing the hesitant look on the Warden's face.

The Warden nodded, fingers twisting tightly into the sheets as she watched Wynne gather her robes about her and stand, leaving the room to find a mirror. At the sound of Elissa stirring in her seat and the creak of the legs, she turned towards her. "You say you saved my face, but why am I blind in one eye?"

Elissa sighed, but the held the Warden's intense, one-eyed gaze. "The damage to your left eye was too great. We could not save it."

The words took a moment to sink in, and the Warden continued to stare at Elissa before the dam in her eyes burst. Putting her head in her hands, her hair slipping down to cover her face, the Warden hiccupped and her shoulders shook violently. Hot, fat tears slipped along her skin and drizzled in warm, salty trails down her neck. She clenched her teeth, growling as she tried to suppress the onslaught of tears. Her fingers dug into golden curls and tender skin. A glass eye. That's what she'd felt. She ground her face into her hands, pressing her eyes into the bottom of her palms.

Elissa carefully sat beside the Warden, her weight sinking the straw mattress pad lower into its frame. Her hands came to rest on either side of the Warden's shoulders, massaging them gently. "This is a silly thing to cry about," she said softly into the younger girl's ear. "The loss is not so great, and was easily fixed."

"It is not fixed!" sobbed the Warden, shrugging Elissa away. Her fingers pulled at her hair in distress. "That was my shield eye! I cannot be a Grey Warden," she ground out, voice choked, "if I cannot fight."

Elissa made a _tsk_ing sound. "You can still fight. Irving made your new eye. It is a rare form of quartz found only in the rocks below this tower. He enchanted it for you. It will allow you some sight. You will never see anything clearly in detail with that eye, but it will let you know the relative depth, size, and distance of objects. It is not hindered by water or covering, so you may continue to act as you normally would."

"I can't see anything," the Warden shook her head, rolling it in her hands, "it doesn't work. He enchanted it wrong!"

"You will need to become accustomed to the enchantment. You will become aware of it when you are…calmer, and have had time to recognize it." Elissa's hands returned to their previous position and continued their stroking. "I promise."

The Warden's shoulders just sagged in resignation, tears spilling down her cheeks again. She heard the soft footsteps of Wynne approaching and felt the way the bed shift under the other woman's weight as she sat down.

"Here, a mirror for you."

With a sullen stretch of her hand, the Warden took the mirror from Wynne and slowly raised it before her. It was a dull, bronze thing that was tarnished. The handle had some sort of faded embossing, perhaps of a rose vine, but it was long since recognizable. It was like the Warden: ruined. Still, the thing fit comfortably into her hand as though it had always been there. To the Warden, who was no stranger to mirrors, this was unsurprising. She had loved them greatly as a younger woman, and had coveted above all else the six hand-mirrors her mother had given her. Contained in her family for generations, their handles were turquoise and pearl, and their etching gold.

They were how she had made herself lovely, and how she had established her friendship with Morrigan all those months ago. The two women had shared their love of mirrors and looking glamorous over a small campfire, both vain in their own way, though with the Warden doing most of the complimenting and pampering for the sake of Morrigan's fragile ego. Luscious black hair had been braided and set tightly with the witch's pilfered combs, and thus their companionship had been born.

But as the Warden looked at her reflection, she could not see the laughing girl who had braided Morrigan's hair before times had become too grim. The Lady Cousland and her six mirrors were a memory of the past, compared to this ashen-faced, thin-lipped _woman. _Like her mirrors, lost in the taking of Highever, and Morrigan's friendship, lost by the Warden's refusal, the Warden was but a memory of beauty.

Her left cheek was bright pink and shiny, the skin new and ready. The pink color and the glare of the skin would disappear once she got into the sun, but her misshapen eye would never go away. Her left eyelid sat half-lidded and loose over a grey sphere. Within the orb, she could see the shifting and curling of white smoke. She promptly dropped the mirror into her lap, having had enough.

She wept again. Vanity be damned, but she was unhappy. Scars from battle were hidden easily under clothes and armor, but she had never been wounded on her face. No stray arrow had caught her cheek, no blade her nose, no mace her ear. This was an affront to who she was and what she had been told. This was _attractive _on a man; this showed how _brave _he was. But she felt foolish, and stupid, and most of all ugly.

In her head, she could imagine the things that people would say of her, of their doubts of her skill, of her beauty. She could not even say she earned her wound in a successful battle; she had no redemption for her folly. She had been at the mercy of someone who by all right's she should have been able to defeat. Instead, she had been forced to her knees, cowed by some sinister trick she should have known he would pull.

She let slip a half-wail half-growl, and felt herself pulled tightly against Wynne's body. "I am a failure!" She sobbed, pressing her face into the crook of Wynne's neck. "I am hideous."

Wynne said nothing and instead stroked at the Warden's long hair with her pale, spindly fingers. As she cradled the Warden to her chest, Wynne acutely felt her age. "This is my fault," she said, "I am sorry, child."

Elissa spoke before the Warden could respond. "This could have been worse. She could have died, Wynne. An eye is nothing to cry over; is it not possible for her to just celebrate that she lives? Other young girls were not as fortunate." She put her hands over Wynne's, stopping their errant stroking and leveled the older mage with a sharp stare.

"Elissa, she is young," Wynne's smile was sad, "she may have fought in many battles, but that does not make her a hardened veteran. She is thankful, and will be amenable to this situation given time. But change does not come easily to her. Not for as long as I have known her."

"She is the Hero of Ferelden." Elissa frowned at her fellow mage, "she is not a spoiled child, some spoiled Orlesian princess."

"I am a Cousland!" the Warden snapped, pulling away, as if the comparison was the same (and by all rights it was; she had been a spoiled child). Angrily, she rubbed away her tears and her weakness with the backs of her hands and the neck of her shift. Frustrated by her loss of control, she looked between the two women coldly. "But you are correct, I _am _the Hero of Ferelden, but I didn't do a damn thing to avenge those girls. I couldn't do my duty."

Elissa dropped her gaze to her hands, frowning in contrition, while Wynne sat in silence.

"Change does not come easily to me, Wynne is right," the Warden said with a strained voice, tears slipping through her thin veneer of ice, "and I have no excuse to be this way, but I cannot control this. Leave me," she commanded, "to wallow alone with my shattered vanity."

Neither mage knew how to respond to that.

"If that is what you wish," Elissa said quietly, "if that is what will help you heal, then I will oblige you. If you happen to have need of me, do not hesitate to alert any of the templars. They will find me."

The Warden nodded, shrugging away Elissa's parting touch. She kept her eyes on Wynne as the mage left.

"Do not be angry with her, Aurora," Wynne said once they were alone. She folded her robes before her as she stood, "Elissa was the one who managed to find the way to heal you."

"She didn't do it fast enough," replied the Warden coolly.

Wynne frowned. "You are better than this."

"When you lose your eye, you can be petulant too." The Warden's mouth pursed into a tight line. "I'm angry."

"Elissa is the wrong target."

"I did not kill Cullen." The Warden sighed. "He is probably gone now, to a place where I can't find him. All those girls dead, with no chance for justice."

Wynne chuckled quietly, folding her hands before her as she stood before the Warden, "he didn't get very far, dear. Loghain found him."

"He did? He's dead then?" The Warden raised her eyes to Wynne, who nodded her confirmation. "Good."

"He will want to see you, you know. He has been very worried," Wynne smiled, "he's the one who brought you back, after all."

"I…don't want him to see me like this." The Warden wrapped her arms around herself. "It is embarrassing. I'm his Commander and…well." She let her eyes fall back to the bed. "I look terrible. I look like my failure, my folly."

"General Loghain Mac Tir is not a man who I think cares about your appearance," replied Wynne dryly, "he's seen enough battle and wounds to have seen the worst of it. And I think he would have a different opinion about what you look like, given his own experiences."

"I don't care," said the Warden stubbornly, "for my own piece of mind, more than his. I have a reputation to uphold as well, and I'm not doing it very well in this state."

"I can give you time to come to terms with your new situation, but there's nothing I can do about how your eye looks," Wynne grimaced, "so you are going to have to live with it."

Her lips pursing in thought, the Warden twisted her hands in her lap.

"And I think that Loghain may be a good way for you to adjust to Irving's enchanted eye. He is skilled with a sword," Wynne mused, "and would probably not complain to helping you. He also knows that I think he would look better with a nice, swishy tail, and so understands that refusal is not an option."

Suddenly, the Warden's face brightened. "You know, Wynne, there is something you can do for me. Or rather, find for me."

"What would you have me do?" asked the old mage.

The Warden's smile was weak. "Find me an eye patch."

* * *

_And now the Warden has her eye patch! Yay! That link in my profile to the picture of the Warden by Lady Winde is no longer a spoiler. Feel free to pop on over and take a look if you haven't yet! _

_In the next Interlude we should see the Cullen/Warden incident from Loghain's perspective, and after that we are back on our way to Orlais. _

_Hopefully you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, feel free to let me know what you're thinking! Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed and alerted the story! :)_


	20. Interlude V

**Interlude V: The Reckoning**

In the gloom, the two combatants stood barefoot watching each other. A few slivers of sunlight rained down onto them, a courtesy of the thin wall slits that illuminated this chamber, but neither of the pair had moved to light the torches of the room. It was too hot for the light of the fire, too hot too to do much else than to let the cool stone below them ease their feet. Sweat dotted their foreheads and faces, and caused their loose tunics to plaster against heated skin. Heavy shields on their arms and borrowed wooden swords in hand, muscles ached as shoulders panted.

The Warden took a deep breath and stepped to her right, shield at the ready, but as so many times before, Loghain did not counter left. Instead of allowing himself to be corralled into the sight of her remaining eye, Loghain kept himself fixed squarely in her blind spot. He had spent the better part of the day foiling her plans as they had practiced, forcing her to use her other "eye" and her senses in order to defeat him. Staying in the darkness of her left eye was getting more difficult as the day progressed, since the Warden was getting very good at swinging her head about to find him like some long-necked sea predator stalking for her prey.

However, his timing was much better than her fevered search for him. He was able to dance backwards and away as she turned towards him, but so far, he had been unable to goad the Warden into following through with an attack. She had this unfortunate habit of slinking behind her shield when she could not find him, pivoting on her heels whenever he made a sound. Her ears were sharp, but not enough to compensate for what her eye had given her.

Her newfound caution worried Loghain. While she had never been a reckless fighter to begin with, the Warden had attacked and parried with amazing confidence. Here she watched and waited, sucking in her breath to listen for the slightest sound that he might make. It was not a style of fighting that was effective, since Loghain's reach was long, his reflexes battle hardened, and his precision perfect. He was able to step inside the reach of her sword, spin out of her responsive shield bash, and flank her.

The echo of his wooden sword meeting the small of her back echoed throughout the room, and she let out a half-strangled hiss of pain.

"Was that necessary?" she asked in an angry tone, turning towards him with a scowl. Her shield was held wide as a gesture of surrender. "Truly, you had me at defeat when you flanked me."

He shrugged away her anger. "Again," he said, bringing his sword up at the ready to strike. Loghain watched a bead of sweat roll down the Warden's nose as she readied herself for another of his attacks. Her shield, emblazoned with the crest of the Grey Wardens, was held up tightly to cover her body. When she nodded her assent, which she always did, he struck.

In a series of small steps, he closed the distance between them. He would not give her the luxury of hiding behind her shield. If she refused to attack him, then he would attack her and force her to fight back. His sword slashed upward at her sword arm, and she stepped back to avoid the cut. He clattered his shield against her own, sending her stance open wide and her shield off to the left. Loghain gave her time to regroup, to pull her shield over her heaving chest, to use her new sense of sight to her advantage. But she kept tilting her right eye towards him, to find him, and Loghain knew she was back to her old habits. Perhaps she had been telling the truth, and not merely exaggerating.

"You really can't see anything out of that thing, can you?" he asked.

"Not anything to be of use." She said, pulling her shield back to her body, "just a lot of blurry shapes. I cannot fight like this." Her sword arm lowered.

Loghain stretched out his sword arm, waving it just outside of her right eye's field of vision and into that of her left eye's. She moved her head to follow. "Stop that. See if you can focus on my movement. Close your eye, if you have to." He watched her do as he suggested, though with a grimace and a tensing of her jaw. Slowly, he brought his sword am up, and then down. The pommel felt sweaty and hot in the palm of his hand, but managed to rest perfectly amidst the well-earned calluses of his fingers.

The Warden gritted her teeth and shuffled awkwardly behind her shield. "I can see what _I think _is your arm."

"If it moves like an arm, and it looks like an arm," said Loghain dryly, "then it must be an arm."

"It does not _look _like an arm," the Warden sighed, "there's too much…noise. I can't describe it, really. Imagine you're in a room with one hundred people, and you are trying to find my voice, but there are many other sounds that distract you. The clinking of glasses, the shuffle of feet, the roar of a fire, the barking of dogs. That's…what it's like, except it's my eye." She stared at him, brow furrowed.

"Irving said you would become more accustomed to it in time, did he not? Will you not be able to tune out the noise?" Loghain pursed his lips in thought as she shrugged helplessly. "We may just have to teach you how to recognize the 'shapes' of basic attacks. Like this, for example. Close your eyes," he crouched, after she did so, and brought his sword arm over his head and waited. "What do you see? How do you see it?"

"I 'see' a big round blob with a long thin blob sticking out from the top of it," said the Warden in frustration.

Slowly, Loghain brought his sword down. "Keep telling me what you see."

"The long thin blob is slowly shrinking," replied the Warden dryly.

"And what do you think that means?"

"I don't know."

"Open your eyes, girl, and look then."

A bitter chuckle from the Warden, "now I can open _it_?"

"Yes."

The Warden opened her eye, observing the stance that Loghain had taken. She closed her eye again, trying to match up the two images. "Shrinking blob is your sword arm coming down towards me."

"And what do you do when something is striking down towards you?" asked Loghain, trying to keep the chiding tone out of his voice.

The Warden raised her shield, lifting it up until she felt the scrape of Loghain's sword point a few inches higher than her shoulder level.

"Very good," he praised, "now, all we have to work on is your timing."

"This is ridiculously foolish," the Warden pushed Loghain's blow to the side, and his sword slowly fell from her shield. She let her defenses drop, both shield and sword arm drooping. "We don't have time for me to relearn how to fight."

"You aren't relearning how to fight," Loghain frowned, noticing her now vulnerable defense, "you are learning how to fight with a handicap. I have known many good soldiers who managed to continue their careers without the help of a magical eye. Now, again."

The Warden did as she was told, dropping herself into a defensive tuck, shield high and at the ready. "Ready," she said with a sigh.

"Your heart isn't in this, is it?"

"No, it isn't."

"You know," Loghain eyed her critically, "you may want to try taking the offensive. It may be that you'll have to change your style in order to adapt to your injury. Give you something new to do."

"I…all right." The Warden switched her footing, weight distributed to spring forward, shield held loose just below her shoulder. "When you are ready."

"I'm ready, girl." Loghain tapped his sword to his shield for emphasis.

The Warden lunged forward, sword arm feinting high and slashing low. Every movement had a counter movement, and it was in this rhythm that the Warden found herself. As if she was living in some memory, her shield arm automatically came up to parry the usual counterattack that came with her sword slash. Her muscles were hot and throbbing in readiness. She felt the sound of Loghain's sword scraping against her shield, and the Warden threw her weight forward in a carefully timed strike, forcing Loghain to stagger backwards as her sword scraped against his own shield. She spun on her heel, forcing him on the defense with another set of attacks that aimed to cut his legs out from under him. Giving him no quarter, the Warden's memory was filled with maneuvers and their counters. Each time she attacked, her shield adjusted accordingly for the sister attack. Loghain's sword slipped along the edges of her shield, unable to break her barrier, while she kept his own shield busy.

As she rocked forward on her toes to begin another series of maneuvers, Loghain spun just outside of her line of sight, and the Warden felt a sharp, sudden crack of another's shield against her own. Her arm shook as the force of the blow sent her shield wide and over her head. Her feet slipped against the stone as she lost her balance, the weight above her head too great for her current stance. Her sword dropped to the ground as her arm flailed for balance, one leg kicked out blindly, and she brought her other hand up to drag her stray shield arm down.

Two clatters hit the ground, and then a strong arm wrapped around her waist to keep her from falling. She felt herself pulled back against a pair of warm hips, as Loghain pulled her flush against his body for balance. His free hand came up to assist her struggling shield arm, slowly tugging the shield over her forearm and head. He let it gently fall to his side, the clatter sounding through the templars' empty training room.

"You can't predict your opponent's movements," he chided, though his tone was gentle. His thick eyebrows were knotted close on his brow in concern. "A sword fight isn't won by rote or by memory. While you may try to force me into attacking and parrying in certain ways, whether or not I do is another matter. Also, you will tire if you try to attack like that. If you wish to end your fights quickly, try not to fight at all."

The Warden's hands had been gripping Loghain's broad shoulders for stability, her fingers digging into the cords of muscle. She withdrew one hand, using it to push away the stray hair that had stuck to her sweaty face. She also mopped at her brow and his with the edge of her sleeve. "Hopefully," she said, raising her grey eye to his, "it will always be old men who pick fights with me." Her lips quirked into a bitter smile, "do not think I didn't notice your labored breathing. My memories or not, you were also getting tired."

"I'm not a proud enough man to admit to the contrary," Loghain let loose a bark of rueful laughter, the hot air of his breath brushing against her cheeks, "but I guarantee you, madam, you would be hard pressed to fight two of me."

Color flushed to the Warden's cheeks. _Hard _pressed, indeed. "Of that I have no doubt." She leaned forward, sagging against him bonelessly, her cheek pressed into his shoulder. She could smell his sweat, and felt the cool, slickness of his neck. She was tired.

Loghain's shoulders stiffened and he pulled her away from him, standing her within an elbow's reach. With the Warden watching on with curiosity, he brought his large, sword-callused hands to either side of her face and slowly turned it one way, then the other. He watched her lonely eye and the way that it adjusted to his ministrations. It twittered between his eyes, nose, and lips. "Do you think," he said thoughtfully, "that it is your patch that is causing you trouble?" His thumb skirted the bottom edge of the black matte fabric for emphasis. "You could take it off for the next round."

"No," said the Warden, stormy eye suddenly focused on him. Her lips tightened, "the enchantment works the same with or without covering."

"Ah," Loghain shrugged, letting his hands fall away at the Warden's irritated stare, "was just a thought. You may want to try it, though."

The Warden shook her head and turned from him, gathering her sword and shield from the floor. "I will practice on my own, if that is the case."

"Aurora," Loghain's tone was stern, "it is just an eye. You could have lost your - "

"My life?" she finished for him.

"No," Loghain shook his head, "don't be daft. You could have lost your hand. If you think learning to fight with a magically enchanted eye is difficult, try training your left hand to do what your right can no longer. No mage is going to regrow you a _hand._"

"Well, no mage has yet regrown me an _eye._" The Warden had her back turned to Loghain, and so secretly admired the contours of her hands and the flexibility of her fingers. "I just wish that, for once, things were simple."

"If you think being Teyrna of Highever or the wife of some Bann would be easy, you would be wrong." Loghain came to stand beside her, "politics is not simple. Marriages aren't simple; Maker's breath, children aren't simple."

"Ah," the Warden shrugged away his presence, lips pulled back into a half-grimace at his comments, "well, who knows if any of those things were in my future anyway. I could have never chosen to marry, never been Teyrna of Highever, and merely lived off my brother's wealth. Life would have been simple then."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. "My apologies, but you don't seem the type."

"I'm not the type for a lot of things, Loghain Mac Tir." The Warden's thoughts were taking a dark turn for the worse. Children, and marriage, and Highever, all of the things that she had been groomed for that she would never get to partake in. Being freed of them should have been a relief, but she felt as though she had lost her normalcy.

"Stop it."

The Warden felt Loghain's sword point, dull and heavy, between her shoulder blades. "What?"

"You're moping." Loghain pressed the point harder, "Stop it."

"I am not moping," replied the Warden lamely.

He scoffed at that. "I've had a daughter and a wife, I know what moping is. I know what it looks like, madam."

"I'm a Grey Warden, we do not mope. We _suffer._" The Lady chuckled quietly, "that was terrible, wasn't it?"

Loghain nodded, though she could not see it. "It was."

"Loghain, why did you follow me?" the Warden turned to look over her shoulder, her good eye appraising the man in his beige, sweat-soaked tunic as he moved to gather his fallen arms. "And how did you know?"

Loghain raised an eyebrow at her. "You say that in a rather accusatory tone."

"Well, didn't you trust me?" she asked. She narrowed her eye as she waited for him to speak.

"Trust someone who was being ferried across to the far shore of Lake Calenhad in the middle of the night after a long day of traveling? Pah," his lip curled back, "I wouldn't even trust _Maric _in that situation."

"That brings me very little comfort," the Warden grumbled.

"It isn't supposed to," Loghain walked to the far wall and slowly rested his shield and sword against it, before moving a short distance away and sinking to the floor. "My knees aren't as good as they once were," he winced as he stretched his legs out in front of him. His back rested stiff and straight against the stone, hands settling on his thighs.

The Warden imitated his behavior, resting her own sword and shield beside his before she crouched down in the space between his parted legs. She rested her hands before her, distributing her weight on them in her frog crouch. "So how did you know it was me then?"

"I didn't," said Loghain with a wry smile, "your Mabari did."

He settled back against the wall, telling her of what had happened, while the Warden lowered herself fully down to the floor and sat cross-legged before him, nestled between his knees.

_Loghain sat on the edge of the pier, skipping stones into the still water of Lake Calenhad. At his side rested his shield and sword, and behind him Dane paced nervously. The Mabari, not wanting to be left alone inside the inn, had followed Loghain out to the water he detested so much. As he paced, he shook his head from side to side and growled, hopping into a fighting stance every so often and growling at the massive expanse of water before them. _

"_So you don't like water, do you?" Loghain chuckled. "When Aurora told me that on the road here, I would never have guessed it. I suppose that explains why you go barking mad whenever there's snow on the ground, pardon the pun."_

_Dane only whimpered in agreement, snuffling and shuffling on the thick wooden planks. _

"_It isn't going to hurt you," said Loghain of the water, "you've got big strong muscles to swim with."_

_This didn't seem to ease the war dog, who continued to alternate between whimpering and growling at the lake. His paws scratched on the thick wood, nails digging small grooves in the weatherworn surface. _

_Loghain sighed, "If you keep moving about like that, I'm going to have to feed you again." Loghain had spent a fair amount of coin on their dinner; which consisted of three roasted (more appropriately charred) rabbits. Loghain had only gotten to eat half of his, having had to contend with Dane's large, sad eyes as he mournfully watched every mouthful the old Warden had taken. "And I don't think your mistress would appreciate me spending the coin to fatten you up." He skipped another stone on the water. _

_Their accommodations were simple enough, but the denizens at the Spoiled Princess were a gloomy sort and Loghain did not really blame them. Living in the shadow of the Circle Tower, they were always in danger of becoming prey to any magical mishaps. He did not particularly envy them their scenic views of the legendary lake and the beautiful countryside and forests of their landscape, for Loghain Mac Tir trusted magic about as much as he trusted anyone other than himself. _

_Magic had failed Loghain Mac Tir many times, beginning first with the Orlesian occupation. The intent of Ferelden's fancy, frilly-knickered cousin had been discovered too late. If the mages had been less concerned with themselves, and more concerned with the country that they resided in, then perhaps they could have divined the Orlesian occupation. With advanced warning, Loghain was sure that his countrymen could have repelled the invaders easily. But as it was, the mages had been (and still were) concerned primarily with their secrets and their societies, and had left their country to twist and burn under foreign rule. _

_The last time that magic had failed Loghain was in the death of Ferelden's queen. For all the power of magic, for all the skill of its users, for all the convenience that it did, magic had failed to save Rowan Guerrin. She had wasted away under the careful eyes of Ferelden's best healers. Her eyes had sunk, her glorious hair had turned brittle, and her skin had gone as thin as paper. She died a shade, which was how (bitterly) Loghain thought of her position in life: the second love, the dutiful queen, but always in the shadow of another. _

_Where magic had been needed the most in Loghain's life, it had failed, and Loghain had not forgiven such trespass. _

_But the Warden did not seem to share his sentiments, for she had made a powerful friend within the Circle. Wynne was a tenacious old woman, and though she had butt heads with Loghain often during those last few moments of the Blight, they had come to an understanding about one another. She did not like him, and she certainly did not understand his motives, but they had the same cause and the same quest. They held the same respect for their Commander, and in that, they could at least share. He knew Aurora saw her as a motherly figure, and Loghain himself had had a grandmother much like Wynne and knew the appeal. She had been wise, of strong convictions, and had the ability to make the best jam tarts in all of Ferelden. _

_Loghain missed the old woman quite a bit, but was thankful that she had passed away before the Orlesian occupation, before she could see what the invaders had done to her daughter, his mother. _

_Three stones in quick succession glided over the glassy surface of the lake, but his fourth was angled badly and fell with a large splash. A few droplets of water splattered over the pier. They were not close enough to reach Dane, but the Mabari lunged at them anyway, snapping at the air next to Loghain's foot. _

"_Did someone drown you as a pup?" Loghain reached out a hand and scratched at the riled Mabari's fur, nails stroking deep against the thick flap of skin behind the dog's neck that served to protect it. "Wasn't your mistress, was it?"_

_Dane barked, which Loghain assumed meant, 'No, my mistress didn't attempt to drown me.'_

The Warden grunted. "Of course I never tried to drown Dane!" She looked highly offended, her nose wrinkling high in indignation on her face. "Nor did anyone in my family!"

Loghain merely shook his head. "Do you want me to tell you what happened or not?"

The Warden fell silent in response.

_Loghain chuckled and his fingers absently moved to that place behind the Mabari's ears that were the most sensitive. His fingertips grazed the area gently, slowly rubbing small circles into the short, prickly fur. Despite his unease, Dane's tongue peaked out of his mouth. He lowered himself beside Loghain with a grunt, large head resting on his paws. _

_In the light of the moon, Loghain could clearly see the Mabari's bone-white kaddis streaking across the dark fur. The kaddis had been enchanted, since Loghain could feel it tingling just below his hand, but with what he did not know. If it were his mabari, he would have had some sort of stone-shell enchantment, something to make his war dog impervious to all weapons. Knowing Aurora, she had probably chosen something similar, though one could never tell with women. Whatever she had chosen though, it would need reapplying. The kaddis was beginning to wear. _

"_Must be terrible trying to get you to bathe, eh?" _

_Dane just rumbled in response and Loghain hadn't even needed to ask the question. He had seen the Mabari's mistress try to coax her dog into a stream to bathe, or entice him into rolling in the snow. Thankfully for them all, Dane abhorred all liquids. Mud, blood, spilled milk, it did not matter. It was only in the rain that Dane was ever clean, and even that he suffered sullenly. _

"_She won't have us take the boat to Val Royeaux because of you. It's a long walk for us, pup, all because you hate the water!" _

_Dane did not seem grateful or surprised with the news; he was concerned only with Loghain's fingers in his fur, weaving delightful patterns against his skin. He was also grateful for the meaty rabbit leg that Loghain slipped him from one of his pockets. _

"You are spoiling my dog," remarked the Warden with a smirk. "The long walk to Orlais may do him some good."

"Your dog was long spoiled before I ever came along," replied Loghain, mirroring her expression, "but has more alacrity than we give him credit for."

_Dane did not get to enjoy the snack, for the sound of wood parting water reached Dane's ears. The Mabari stood, ears pointed forward, eyes alert as he peered into the gloom. Loghain sucked in his breath, staring where Dane did. In the moonlight, he could see the glinting of armor on the distant shore of the Circle Tower. He could see the rippling of the moon's reflection at the small island's pier; the shadow of a boat in the water. Who would be taking out a boat so late?_

_Letting out a loud growl, Dane's nails pawed at the dock as he set about the area in a quick pace. He swung his head back and forth, whimpering, and whining at the boat that was slowly moving towards the eastern shore. _

"_That could be your mistress." Loghain pursed his lips. If that was indeed the Warden, he thought her a fool for leaving the Circle Tower so late at night. She was there on a social visit; there was no need to go traipsing into the woods. Her odd habits or not, the Warden was not someone who willingly gave up the warmth and safety of a roof over her head in the dark hours of the night. So what was it that brought her out so late and without coming back to get him first? _

_If that was even her at all. _

_Best to go take a look. _

_He eyed the boat that had been tied carefully to the pier, resting alongside the dock in the shallow water for the evening. It was fairly late, and most of the good folk in the area had retired to bed (Loghain himself was only awake because of the gnawing feeling in his gut). By the blackened windows and darkened doorways of the small homesteads in the area, he knew it was unlikely that anyway was awake to ferry him across, which meant that he would have to do it himself._

_Loghain pushed himself to a stand, gathered his sword and shield, and made the necessary preparations to make the small boat ready for travel. Dane wandered behind him as he set about uncoiling the rope from its home, unwrapping it halfway before he clambered down into the small craft to finish the task. _

_Dane let out a snuffling whine, looking at Loghain in agitated fashion. _

"_Do you think you can handle the trip, Dane?" Loghain asked the Mabari, lifting his head as he spoke. _

_The Mabari seemed uncertain of the answer, tail wiggling in agitation as his large, dark eyes regarded the boat, the Circle Tower, Loghain, and the eastern shore. _

"_I can't wait for you," Loghain was nearing the end of the rope, "if you're coming, get in."_

_And so Dane did. His large paws surprisingly delicate and agile, he lowered himself into the boat. Settling himself in front of Loghain, his head turned to follow the movement of the other boat. As Loghain gathered the oars in each hand and with powerful strokes sent their boat gliding across the water, Dane watched the eastern shore with vigilance. His concentration only broke when Loghain brought them alongside the pier on the opposite shore. _

_Here a templar greeted them, tying their boat to the dock and helping Loghain out with a steady hand. Though Loghain was only in the light, leather padding he wore below his heavy set of plate, he was feeling his age acutely in his knees and so standing and moving out of the boat was a more awkward task than he had originally predicted. It was made more awkward by the cumbersome weight of the shield strapped to his back. Dane, on the other hand, had no trouble exiting the boat at all. His powerful muscles easily catapulted him from the boat, pushing it out into the water (and nearly taking the started Loghain with it) where it tugged fitfully against its binding._

"_Do you often have people leaving the Circle Tower so late at night?" asked Loghain of the templar who had greeted them. _

"_Not usually," responded the templar, "but tonight has been full of unwanted and unfortunate surprises."_

_Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."_

_The templar's eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't know where to begin, but I think it is I who should be doing the questioning. Who are you, sir, and what is your business here so late at our Tower?" _

_Loghain harrumphed. "I am Loghain Mac Tir, a Grey Warden, and my commander came here earlier this evening to meet one of her friends, the mage Wynne. She has yet to return, and her mabari has been acting strangely since he saw a boat leave here not too long ago." _

"_Ah," the templar sounded contrite, "forgive me, I did not recognize you in the dark, Teyrn. I am Ser Bryant." _

"_I'm not a Teyrn anymore, and I don't care who you are. Tell me what has happened here. And make it quick, please." _

"You didn't have to be so mean to Ser Bryant," the Warden frowned, "he is a perfectly pleasant man."

"He was occupying me with useless details," replied Loghain.

"His name is not useless."

"Maybe not to you," Loghain smirked, "why, dare I say that you _like _Ser Bryant?"

The Warden's eye widened in surprise. "As a friend!"

"How merciful for Ser Bryant, because a man like him wouldn't know how to handle you."

Her eyebrows raised high. "And who would know how to 'handle' me?"

Loghain shrugged, feigning innocence. "I haven't the faintest idea, but mark my words, not someone like him."

_For emphasis, Dane growled at the familiar templar. _

_Ser Bryant scowled. "There is a renegade templar on the eastern shore. He…" the templar seemed ashamed, "raped and killed three mages. The Circle Tower is in a political schism because of King Alistair's verdict that the mages should practice free of the Chantry, and tensions are running high here. The mages cannot take their justice out on him without many here taking offense. Likewise, there are few here who are willing to hunt him down, and if he escaped, the mages would accuse us of aiding him. It could start a war here, as there is little love between us. Not after what Uldred put us through. What he put Cullen through. His words have struck true with many of my brothers and sisters."_

_At the mention of the rape, Loghain let out an audible swear. The only thing Loghain hated more in the world than rapists were the Orlesians, and as far as he was concerned, they were all rapists anyway. "So you had the poor girl go and do your dirty work for you?" Loghain shook his head in disgust, "Typical. She's the Hero of Ferelden, not some damned errand girl. Did you realize we'd been on the road all day? She hasn't even eaten since midday. She's probably exhausted."_

"_She volunteered," said Ser Bryant in his defense. "It was her decision."_

"_Pah. You probably managed to guilt her in to it in some way." Loghain turned his head towards the eastern shore. He stretched out his hand and pointed. "She's over there, you say?"_

_Ser Bryant nodded. "Yes, we had Carroll take her across less than a half-hour ago." _

"_Good. You will take me there, Ser Bryant." Loghain gestured to the boat behind him. _

"_Why don't you ferry yourself there, Warden Mac Tir?" asked the templar, irritation clear in his voice at Loghain's treatment of him. "You have all the necessary equipment."_

"_Because," replied Loghain, as though he were talking to a small child, "I will need my arms for fighting. If my arms are tired, I will not fight as well. If your templar brother really slew three mages, then he must be quite an adept swordsman."_

_Ser Bryant looked at him, quite unconvinced and unmoved. _

"_And because," Loghain added, "there is a tired, hungry woman on the far shore who could use our help. Don't do it for me, but do it for her if you like. Or do it for the dog. His sounds are breaking my heart."_

_Dane whimpered, staring up at Ser Bryant with wide, sad eyes. _

_Ser Bryant glanced down at Dane and then immediately back up to Loghain, wincing. "Mabari."_

"_Quite," agreed Loghain, giving Dane a pat on the head. "A Mabari without his mistress. Come along, Ser Bryant. Let's go to the eastern shore."_

"_We'll use one of our boats," Ser Bryant gave a wave for Loghain to follow, leading him to one of the larger rowboats that could easily accommodate two or three fully armored templar, and at least one slim mage. The templars on dock duty stared at him with curiosity, until he explained the situation. Fumbling about in one of the other tethered boats, he tossed in an extra set of oars, which Loghain looked at with some contempt. "The two of us rowing together will make getting to the eastern shore quicker." He gave Loghain a pointed stare. "And lighten the rowing load."_

_Loghain grumbled in response, settling himself with some difficulty into the boat while Ser Bryant prepped them for departure. Dane settled himself at the prow, resting his front paws on the edge as he stared with determination at the tree line. _

_Turning to look over his shoulder, Loghain thought he could see the outline of a boat on the far shore, but the moon had passed behind a cloud and sent the world into darkness. "Won't you want a lantern?" he asked Ser Bryant, who had just lowered himself into the boat in front of him. _

_Ser Bryant shook his head. "No. If Cullen is in sight of Lake Calenhad, we do not want him to notice our coming. The moonlight has a chance to give us away, but a lantern most assuredly will."_

_Loghain shrugged and lifted the oars, mirroring Ser Bryant's movements in front of him. "If you say so." _

_Pushing them away from the dock with a combination of gauntlet and paddle, Ser Bryant sent them across to the eastern shore at a brisk pace. Loghain struggled to match the other man's pace. Though no stranger to ships and streams, they were not Loghain's specialty and he much preferred dry land. Ser Bryant, on the other hand, seemed well accustomed to boats, and his strokes were long and steady. Despite the awkward way Loghain strove to match strokes, they made it across to the eastern shore with relatively little splashing and time lost. All the while, Dane watched the far bank. _

_At the scraping of rocks, Ser Bryant and Loghain clambered out into the knee-deep water and dragged their boat ashore. They pulled it alongside the boat and its owner that already rested on the rocky beach. Dane jumped out once the boat had been nestled firmly on dry land. _

"_Watching the boat are you, Carroll?" asked Ser Bryant, his eyes narrowing at his brother templar who rested with his head in his hands. _

"_Yes, vigilantly," replied Carroll dully. He did not raise his head as he spoke. He kept his gaze fixated on the bottom of the boat in which he sat. "Lots of things to guard it from out here."_

"_Like rotting leaves and moss?" Ser Bryant shook his head. _

"_Cullen could come back and take it?" Carroll's shoulders seemed to shrug. "I didn't think Greagoir would want him to escape with one of our boats. That is why you had me bring her out here, after all. To capture him." His eyes raised to Ser Bryant's face, "She was sent to capture him, right?"_

"_Yes," Ser Bryant nodded, "she was."_

"_Speaking of the lady in question," Loghain watched as Dane sniffed and pawed at the ground, "where did she go?"_

_Carroll's eyes darted to Loghain's, "just straight up the hill. She didn't go down the shore; she just headed straight into the forest."_

"_Straight up, eh?" Loghain looked at the sloping forested terrain before him, "just like her." He gave a low whistle to Dane. "Come along, pup, and sniff her out."_

_Dane didn't need to be told twice, and with his head to the ground, he led the chase into the woods. Loghain had trouble following him at such a rapid pace, and had to whistle quietly to the dog to slow down, to wait for him to climb the uncertain path. He bludgeoned his way through foliage, shoving aside brambles and boughs with his powerful chest and arms. Loghain had drawn the bow in his youth (and found himself returning to it in his spare time) and had retained the strength (and physique) that it had given him. _

_But though he could plow through the underbrush with ease, he found his legs tiring and his knees aching at the climbing. He was becoming an old man, and had seen too many battles and climbed too many lofty staircases to say that his lower body was still in prime condition. They were getting into the thick forest now, and there was no turning back. The incline Dane was leading him up sent waves of pain through his joints, but he had to keep going, if not for the dog on the chase, but for the Warden's own safety. If nothing else, he at least got the chance to scold her for being irresponsible while she wiped down her sword. But the thought of her death troubled him greatly, for if she died, he would be left to manage the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. He would have to suffer through Alistair's politics and foreign entreating. He had wanted to spend his old age in peace, as a reward for the service that he had done for his country. He had not planned on doing…this._

The Warden frowned, worrying on her lower lip as she looked at him with a thoughtful cant of her head. "You don't have to come with me to Orlais. I can leave you in Ferelden."

Loghain shook his head. "They'll eat you alive."

The Lady just sighed in return and waved her hand, ordering him to continue with the simple movement.

_He knew he was going the right direction though, for as Dane led him onwards, he could see the way that the trees and the shrubs had been mangled by a recent passerby. Leaves seemed sheared straight off their branches and the branches themselves appeared to be snapped and severed by a great weight. _

_Dane seemed more agitated now, presumably because the scent was becoming stronger. _

_And then the wind called out to them. _

"_They were not women, they were mages!"_

"_And you are not a man, you're a monster! Fight me for your freedom!" _

_The sound of battle was ahead of him. It was faint, still a few minutes away, and above the rise of this hill, but it was there. _

_Dane abandoned all pretenses of waiting for Loghain, bounding up the hill with his powerful muscles at the sound of his mistress's voice and that of her quarry's. However, something seemed to catch Dane's paw as he rose to the crest of the hill, and he tumbled backwards the way he came. He caught Loghain in the gut as he fell, and together the two slid bodily down the side of the hill. Both Mabari and Man clawed and scratched at the leaves and the earth as they fell, trying to slow their descent and make up for lost ground. _

_It was to no avail though, and both stared balefully at the hill they had just climbed. _

"_Come on," grunted Loghain, pushing himself roughly to his feet and climbing the hill now, hand over hand, balls of his feet pushing against the rocks and roots that jutted from the wooded mound. _

_Dane shook his head, sneezing away dust and dirt, before he (more carefully, this time) sprinted up beyond Loghain, his thick legs mindful of the twists and traps on the ground. This time he slowed and came to a stop before skirting the top, waiting, and pawing for the very close Loghain to catch up. The wind shook the woods around them, and leaves fell onto the disturbed earth. Some of them swept down into Loghain's face and he shook his head and spat them away, forcing himself faster up the hill. _

_A scream pierced the air, a haggard, terrible scream. A woman's scream. Not a scream triumphant or a scream enraged, but a scream agonized. _

_Cold energy coursed through Loghain's body, as if someone had emptied all the ice water in the River Dane through his veins. He felt himself catapult over the edge of the hill, thighs and knees knowing they would pay the price the next day, and knew that Dane had done the same. The crude trap that had been placed at the hill's top had already been sprung, and so neither man nor beast needed to fear it. They lunged forward through the thick copse of trees that separated them from the firelight, and there found the Warden and her prey. _

_Loghain had drawn his sword and shield and now stared at the owner of this small campsite who was in the process of picking himself up from the ground. An empty glass vial dropped from his hand as he saw Loghain, and with a look of shock, he fumbled on the ground for the nearest fallen sword. In front of him, the Warden writhed and clawed at the ground. She bellowed and yelled, clutching and scraping at her face, though Loghain could not see it from the way she was facing. Her back arched and her legs kicked out, before she burrowed her face and her head into the dirt. _

_He remembered another woman. He remembered his mother. _

"_So you like to torture and rape women, do you, Cullen?" asked Loghain to the renegade templar, watching as the man slowly positioned himself behind his shield. "Did you think you could try it with her too, you perverse bastard?"_

"_They weren't women!" Cried Cullen back to him, "They were mages!"_

_Loghain was finding it difficult to concentrate with the Warden's flailing limbs and throaty hollering. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dane slinking off into the woods to flank the templar._

_"You think repeating that dogma to me is going to make any sort of difference? She was going to take you back, boy, give you a fair trial, but I have no such mercy for you, rapist scum."_

_In the few moments it took for Cullen to try to formulate a response, Dane sprung into action. Having managed to avoid detection from his initial burst through the foliage by slinking behind Loghain's legs, he had darted back into the underbrush, circled passed the ground where his mistress lay in pain, and had come to crouch in the shadows behind Cullen. As the templar opened his mouth to speak, Dane rushed the templar's legs. _

_With the full weight of the war dog bearing down behind his knees, Cullen had no choice but to fall backwards. Dane slipped between his legs, turned, and lunged at Cullen's sword arm. His strong jaws clamped down on the expanse of chain mail between Cullen's gauntlet and couter, effectively locking down the templar's sword arm. Cullen tried to use his wrist to bring the sword up to slash at the Mabari, but all his strokes were dull and without force. The sword bounced harmlessly off Dane's thick hide. _

_Loghain lost no time in capitalizing on the templar's misfortune. As soon as the templar had been knocked off balance, Loghain had crossed the distance between them. With no snide parting words and with no fanfare, Loghain brought the tip of his sword straight through the most vulnerable part of the templar: his neck. As Cullen struggled with Dane, Loghain sunk the blade straight below the templar's chin and gave it a sharp, sudden twist to the right for good measure. _

_Cullen's hands scrabbled at his throat, but did not last long in the endeavor. He died choking on his own blood and regrets, like he had left Tahirah Amell, Winnifred Blake, and Neria Surana before him. _

_Loghain withdrew his sword, certain of his kill, sheathed it, and rushed to the Warden's side. He knelt beside her and brought his hands to her shoulders. She writhed and pulled away from him, screaming for her mother. _

"_Aurora," he called to her, "Aurora, I'm here. I've come to take you to safety. How badly are you hurt, dearheart?" _

_The Warden did not answer him with words, and only drove her face deeper into the dirt and her body further away from him each time he tried to pull her against his chest. "Mother!" she screamed, "mother, help me!" Her hands clutched at her hair and at the earth. She sobbed and wailed, her tears soaking the leaves and her cheeks. _

_Dane came to rest on the Warden's other side, and used his large head to nudge the Warden's shoulder away from the ground and into the air. She rolled, howling in agony, as the open air touched the dripping, mangled burn of her face. Loghain caught her in his arms as she rolled towards him, cradling her head and chest on his thigh. He spat out a string of ugly curses he hoped she would forget when he saw the bubbling, oozing flesh and the thick bits of raw skin hanging ragged from what was once her smooth features. _

_Loghain remembered the vial dropping from Cullen's hand and cursed the dead man for such a treacherous act. Truly, he had been a desperate man. _

_But time was of the essence, and Loghain did not have enough of it to dwell. "I'm sorry," he apologized, though the Warden would not appreciate it yet, and slowly he sat forward into a crouch. Carrying her in his arms would be awkward because she was still partially armored, but it was the only way he was going to get her out of the woods, since it seemed that Ser Bryant had stayed with Ser Carroll to gossip. He slipped a hand behind her knees and sent the other behind her back. Slowly, from his thighs up, he stood. The Warden's hands clamped instinctively around his neck, and her good cheek rested against his chest. He could feel her tears wetting the skin of his neck as she hollered extra loud at the sudden breeze on her raw skin. _

_Maker's breath, but she was heavy. _

"Pardon me?" asked the Warden, mouth agape at his description of her weight.

Loghain chuckled. "Madam, you are pardoned."

_Loghain's back ached, his joints ached, his head ached – _

"His face will ache," offered the Warden with a sweet smile.

Loghain grunted his understanding. "I'll cease making you insecure."

"_Dane," he said, taking a deep, steadying breath, "Can you find us a way down from here that doesn't require us falling down a hill?" He winced as the Warden let out a particularly loud shriek. Since she could not rub or cover her wound without falling from his arms, all she could do to release the pain was to scream. _

_Dane set about dashing out of the campsite and into the woods, shuffling and shaking the underbrush until he let out a frantic series of barks. Carefully, Loghain picked his way through openings in the trees, shifting his body left and right so that the Warden did not have her legs jostled against the trunks of the trees. He found Dane on the opposite end of the hill they had climbed. There was a fairly steady, even slope on this side. It ran parallel to a thick cluster of trees that rose high from the rocky shore of Lake Calenhad. They were very close to the beach, which meant that getting back to Ser Bryant, Ser Carroll and the boats would not be difficult. _

_For once, something was going right this night. _

_With Dane taking lead to pathfind, Loghain staggered behind him. For each step he took, the Warden wailed like a banshee and dug her fingers into his neck. The smell of her rotting skin was absolutely rancid, and the stink of it turned his stomach many times over. Loghain was not a man who often prayed, but in his head, he begged the Maker that the tools he had given his servants would be enough to heal her. Because if it were not, then this would be yet another example of how magic failed Loghain Mac Tir when he needed it the most. _

_Her forehead was resting just below his chin, and his head dipped low. His dry lips scratched along her head, strands of her sweaty, dirty, flaxen colored hair catching in his mouth. "We're almost there, girl," he said, though more for his benefit than her own. "Almost there." _

_And they were, for they were rounding a bend on the eastern sore when Dane began to bark and Ser Bryant appeared before them. The templars shoulders were heaving under the strain of running in his armor and he spoke to them with labored breath. _

"_I heard the screaming," he explained, "and came as quickly as I could. I lost you in the woods back there. You may be an old man, but Maker's breath, you're fast." His eyes darted to the bundle of limbs in Loghain's arms and his mouth dropped in horror. "Dear Maker, what has happened? We must get her to the Circle Tower, quickly!"_

"_Cullen burned her face with some sort of potion," Loghain shifted the Warden in his arms (which was no easy feat while walking), "probably wouldn't have happened if your man over there," he tilted his head towards the boats for emphasis, "hadn't sat and guarded the boat."_

"_I'll deal with Carroll's negligence later." Ser Bryant looked between the Warden and Loghain, "Do you want me to carry her?"_

_Loghain shook his head. "No. We don't have to torture her any further. Just…" he took in a deep breath of air, "stop crowding me. I can't breathe."_

_Ser Bryant nodded, giving Loghain some air as they passed over the pebbly beach towards the boats. If the mages could not fix this…_

_Ser Carroll was watching them as they returned, having only taken notice of them when he heard the Warden's screaming getting closer. He winced when he saw the Warden's face, and Loghain thought he could see the young man's face pale in the moonlight. _

"_Carroll," ordered Ser Bryant, "you will take the Mabari back to the shore. I will ferry the Wardens across myself."_

_Dane did not seem pleased by this arrangement, and he barked and growled his protest at Ser Bryant, before Loghain interfered. _

"_Dane," Loghain looked him right in the eye, "I know you want to be with your mistress. But I have got to keep her steady in the boat. Nothing will happen to you out on the water."_

_Dane barked._

"_I promise." _

_The Mabari's head dropped low in acceptance, and he slunk to Carroll's boat with a mournful stare back at the other boat where Ser Bryant was helping Loghain settle into it with his precious burden. _

_Loghain rested his back against the edge of the boat, his arms folded tightly around the shivering, twitching, wailing bundle of Grey Warden in his arms. He kept her good cheek pressed firmly against his chest, his fingers tangling deep into her hair as he did so. With her upper body and head trapped, the only part of her free to move was her legs. Her heels ground into the wood of the boat, and she began their path just below her knee so that when she extended her legs the heels squeaked against the boat's siding. Over and over again, she did this, as if the self-stimulation would somehow wash away the pain of her injury. _

_Ser Bryant and Loghain said nothing to each other on the way back to the Circle Tower. Loghain kept his fixed firmly on the Tower, while Ser Bryant stared at the eastern shore. It was only when they were being helped out of the boat that Ser Bryant asked of Cullen's fate. _

_Ser Bryant had steered them as close to the island's shore as he could before hopping into the knee high water and dragging the boat bodily out of the water. He whistled sharply, and the four templars that Loghain had met on dock duty appeared from down the path. "Did you kill him?" he asked, bending his head low so that his lips were by Loghain's ear._

_Loghain nodded. "I did."_

"_You are certain of it?" _

_Loghain nodded again and he heard Ser Bryant sigh as he stood. _

"_We need healers!" called Ser Bryant to his fellows, who were coming down the path towards them. "Go get the mages! The Hero of Ferelden has been injured!"_

_Loghain wanted to wince for the Warden, and he did, for she let out the most horrific cry, as if to emphasize Ser Bryant's statement. _

_The Hero of Ferelden had indeed been gravely injured. _

"I brought you into the Circle Tower, carried you like my bride up many flights of stairs, and brought you to the bed where you awoke." Loghain finished his tale and rested his hands on his thighs. He watched the Warden, who was watching him. For all her previous cajoling and interrupting, she was somber. Her grey eye was sad and silent, and at that moment, he missed its twin as much as she did. "And that is how," he said quietly, "you came to the care of the mages that night."

Slowly, her hands came out to cover his. They rested lightly, hard and warm, against his own.

Loghain could feel the sword calluses and the scars on her palms, and he dropped his eyes to look at them. He was surprised how large her hands were. They were not so large as to be masculine, but they were practical, Fereldan hands, and they had long, tapered fingers suited more to harp playing than swordplay. A few of the nails were chipped and broken, but they were still pleasing to look at. They intrigued Loghain, those hands, for they could both kill and soothe men.

He looked at her face again. She was still staring at him. He decided then that this woman had a strange and curious power over men and that if she had lost to him at the Landsmeet, he probably still would have lost the war for Ferelden. As Moira, the Rebel Queen, had led and inspired many to revolt against the Orlesians, so too would this woman, this Cousland, have done the same to him. And when she had died, for Loghain would have eventually found her and killed her, she would have been some glorious martyr for someone else, someone like him long ago.

"Loghain Mac Tir," her fingertips gently stroked down the length of his hands, fingertips grazing the backs of his fingers, "you are a good man." And then, with a gentle push of her hips, she was kissing him. She raised herself to her knees, placed her hands on either side of his head, fingers slipping through the thick black hair at his temples, and placed kiss after gentle kiss on his forehead.

Loghain had to shut his eyes, for her movement had jostled open the unbuttoned neck of her tunic and the curves of her breasts were laid bare to him. "If you think me so, madam," and Loghain could not help the dryness of his tone, "who am I to argue?"

She laughed at the statement and kissed his forehead a final time before sinking down once more before him. With rosy cheeks, the Lady said nothing to him in response, but instead she smiled and her eye looked less lonely for it.

* * *

_So! Now we have seen Loghain's side of the drama in Chapter 14, and hopefully that has answered any questions/tied up any loose ends about why things went down the way they did. Also, I am slowly working on updating the fanmix, it is just hard to find internet available versions of the songs I listen to when writing! No matter. As always, lots of love goes out to my inspiration and conspirator Lady Winde. Love also goes out to the readers. Thank you for hanging in there!_


	21. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16 **

Two weeks was enough, and it was under the cover of pouring rain that the two Grey Wardens and their war dog made their escape on a cold, misty morning. Bundled under their cloaks and with Dane sullenly picking his way between their horses, they made their way north along the road and passed westward along the banks of Lake Calenhad towards the Frostbacks and the path towards Orlais.

By day, they traveled and by night, they camped. They took what refuge and rest they could in the small inns and towns that dotted the Imperial Highway along the way to the Frostbacks. And when there were no villages in sight, they camped in the open. They shared their chores amicably and were pleasant companions to one another. She would cook, he would gather the firewood; she would tend the horses while he spoiled Dane; she would take the first watch and he would wake her at the sunrise. Such was the way they lived on the road, with their easy companionship making their journey that much more enjoyable.

In leaving the Circle Tower behind, they had also left their troubles and doubts with it. The awkwardness of their working relationship had vanished, and they could perhaps now call each other "friend" honestly and without regret. If not for Loghain, the Warden would have been dead. If not for the Warden, Loghain would be dead. The debt that had occurred at the Landsmeet so long ago had been paid, and now the air had cleared between them.

This is why the Warden had no trouble in asking Loghain to unlace her from her stubborn armor on one particularly warm day of their journey.

"I am _roasting _in this thing," the Warden gestured to her breastplate, and then to her pauldrons, "and these too." She looked down at herself, and grimaced at what she saw, "and I'm splattered in mud." And she was, for she had been walking side by side with Loghain along the road as they led their horses, and mud had up onto her leggings and the bottom half of her breastplate. "And I think I have sand in my boots. Ugggghhh," she made a gagging sound. "I need to bathe. I'm sorry if I smell awful."

"You have been smelling awful for _days_," Loghain smirked, "I just didn't want to offend your sensibilities by telling you." He couldn't help but laugh at the look she gave him: her eye narrowed and her lips puckered as though she had eaten something sour. "My apologies for doing so now."

They had, unfortunately, not found any towns for about four days. Between the rain, the hot sun, the sand of the road and the mud it had become, the Wardens were rancid by all accounts. Normally, such a thing would not have been an issue. However, the rain had been heavy and had created a lot of thick, sticky mud. It had gotten into all the crevices and cracks of their armor and had made it difficult to move. The Warden herself had fallen face first into it, but the mess of the mud had been washed away by the rain.

"You've traveled this way before, yes?"

"I have," Loghain nodded. "Why, do you want me to direct you to the nearest river?"

The Warden bobbed her head eagerly. "Yes."

Loghain slowed to a halt, Gharin whickering softly behind him at the change of pace.

Dane cocked his head at the stop, grumbling deep in his chest.

Loghain rummaged in Gharin's saddlebag for the map he had brought. He laid it flat against the destrier's back, tracing their path from the Circle Tower with a finger. He tapped the map twice. "We are here, I believe, which means that there should be a river almost due north of us."

"Excellent!" The Warden beamed, "Lead the way!"

Loghain watched her out of the corner of his eye. "When you look so happy, how can I refuse?"

"You can't!" The Warden's eye sparkled with laughter. "Indulge me, find me the river."

"Very well." Loghain placed the map carefully back into its proper place, shutting the saddlebag's pouch with care. He took Gharin's reins in hand and tugged the warhorse away from the road and onto the drying grassland that lay beside it.

Dane's picked his paws up high, whimpering when his feet were trapped in the still-wet grass.

"Come along," soothed the Warden, who clucked her tongue lightly at both horse and mabari, "there's no need to be scared. It is only a little bit of water!"

"Woof," replied Dane to her placating, his bark half-hearted.

"I promise you won't have to bathe at all," continued the Warden, "you can just keep me company. But you mustn't look, Ser Dane. It isn't right for a man to watch a woman bathe!"

The Warden's teasing laughter reached Loghain's ears and he felt them color at the prospect of her bathing.

"Unless he has been bound to that woman," the Warden said to Dane, "and then I suspect it may be okay. Though the Maker is a man, and he is probably watching, and I am no bride of the Maker." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "I think perhaps he does not follow his own rules."

"I am sure," Loghain said drolly, "that whenever you bathe, the Maker averts his eyes. Just for you."

"Are you implying my naked visage is not pretty enough for the Maker to spy upon?" The Warden quickened her step, leading her little ambling palfrey on a quick stroll through the wet grass to Loghain's side. "Would I be, after all my injuries and ordeals, too hideous to look upon?"

Loghain looked at her face from the corner of his eye, trying to ascertain her intent. She looked cheerful enough, with none of the morose humor that had come upon her during previous self-deprecating attempts. Since they had left the Circle Tower, her self-esteem had taken a turn for the better, he had found. She did not look embarrassed about her appetite, nor had they had any lengthy discussions about her missing eye. Moreover, she was chattering again, as she had on their way to Vigil's Keep and during their stay there. It was pleasant enough to listen to. Eleanor made sure she was every bit the proper Teyrn's daughter, had groomed her well for a life of polite and interesting conversation.

The Warden's general glibness of speech was a good indicator of her mode, Loghain was finding. When she was upset or angry, or had much weighing on her mind, she fell into cold silence. Those words she did say were terse and Spartan. When she was happy and content, the girl would natter on and needed no conversation partner. Generally, Loghain had always preferred the former to the latter, but he was making all sorts of exceptions for the woman-child. If she was happy, Loghain was content to let her be that way, because no one really _deserved _it more than she did.

And if the prattling kept her mind off her eye, well, all the better. Whether or not she could see out of Irving's enchanted orb was a mystery to Loghain, since the Warden had kept silent about the thing since they'd left the Circle Tower. She likely did not want him to pity her as much as the mages had, and so had not brought up the issue of her handicap. As far as he could tell though (and this was his own fault since he had been remiss in forcing her to train), she was handling it fine. She no longer twisted her head this way and that to regard things with her good eye, instead she only turned her head but a little, mimicking what she would have done if she had had two good eyes instead of one.

But even if she was in better spirits, he was not going to take his teasing too far. "Are you seriously asking me that, or would you have us poll every farmer we meet?"

"If I was asking you," she replied with a sly twist of her lips, "what would you say?"

"Nothing." Loghain kept his eyes focused on the path ahead. "I would say nothing."

"Does silence count as assent?"

"My silence can be whatever you like it to be."

"Hmmmm." The Warden let out a quiet hum. "One day, I will have you answer that question."

"What I think shouldn't matter to you," Loghain said quietly, his voice still surprisingly stern. "Nor what anyone else thinks, for that matter. You're a hero now, girl, damn everyone else and their opinions."

"Well," she chuckled in response, "that is certainly something I will continue to do. Provided that not 'everyone' thinks me too arrogant for doing so. Still…I would like to know."

Loghain sighed, though it was more for show than anything else. "Maker help me."

"All right, all right," the Warden was smiling, "I shall leave off. For now. If you should lead me to a dried up riverbed, I'll begin anew. Mark my words."

"Marked," Loghain replied curtly. "You will find no dried riverbeds in this part of Ferelden."

"Are you an expert on dried riverbeds, Loghain?"

"I can't claim to be. Gwaren's rivers rarely run dry."

"Highever also has…lush…riverbeds." The Warden let the word 'lush' roll over her tongue. "Among other things."

And to Loghain, who had quickened his pace and was now a few steps ahead of her, he acutely felt the word roll down his spine. If he did not know any better, and he suspected that he did, he would have guessed she was _flirting _with him. He stifled his small cough of embarrassment with his hand. "Highever is rather fertile."

"Among other things," repeated the Warden, her tone low and her speech slow.

The words tickled the back of his neck, and Loghain wondered if the Warden was watching him as he quickened his pace. The sooner he got her to her damnable river the better. They could both be rid of the muck that had accumulated under their clothes and in the joints of their armor. And, if they were lucky, they might be able to clean their muddy, smelly war dog. Dane was especially smelly.

In the distance, they could hear the sound of running water amidst the rustling of the leaves in the wind. Loghain's affinity for maps had always served him well, and he'd always had a near instinctual ability to pinpoint his location within several hundred yards of his target. His gift hadn't failed him, and it was not long before both he and the Warden were staring down at the small, clear river that ran through this part of the forest.

The small rise they stood on was only a few feet above the rushing water, and it was an easy walk down. The forest sloped gently down to the river and since the path was free of rocks and tree roots, tethering the horses to the river's side to drink would be simple enough. The river itself was not wide, perhaps thirteen or so feet across, and was shallow from their vantage point. It was waist deep only a few feet in and to the two dirty Wardens it couldn't have been better suited to their needs.

"Look, Dane, water!" teased the Warden to her Mabari, who hunched down low against the ground and growled. "Awww, you silly dog. I bet there's fish in that water. Wouldn't you like some big, tasty trout?"

Fish did not appeal to Dane's senses. He continued to hunch and growl.

"Oh, suit yourself then. Gharin, Brake," the Warden touched each of the horses gently on the nose, "Loghain and I will go and play by the river. You can stay here."

Dane barked.

"By yourself."

He whimpered.

"That's exactly what I thought. Now come along, you fusspot." The Warden clucked her tongue, taking the reins of her palfrey, Brake, in hand. "No one will make you get in, but you must stand guard!"

Dane lifted himself from the ground, stumpy tail as low as it could get between his powerful legs. He dutifully followed his mistress down the slope. Half way down he stopped, turning his head to look up at Loghain and his charger, who waited patiently for him to get his nerve. With his escape route blocked, Dane's head drooped and he bounded down to the water's edge. There he waited, paws nestled in the thin layer of water that covered the many stones of the riverbed's shore.

"We can take turns bathing," said the Warden as she tethered Brake to a low hanging branch by the river, giving the horse plenty of room to drink. "If you bathe first, you can watch the far shore while I keep watch on this shore. With my back to you, and with Dane making up the difference, we should at least be able to cover all directions."

"That sounds reasonable. However," Loghain tethered Gharin to a nearby branch, also within reach of the shore, "you were the one so eager to bathe. Might I suggest that you take the plunge first?"

"That could work too." The Warden smiled as she set about unbuckling the vambraces on her forearms. She deposited each on a sack she had placed on the ground near the shore. Within the sack was polish and wax, and while Loghain bathed she intended to clean as much of the detritus out of her armor's joints as she could. Of main concern were the spaces between the interlocking plates of the vambraces and tasset. As all armed warriors, the Warden feared rust.

And by the clinking of armor behind her, the Warden knew that Loghain feared it as well.

"Maker's breath, this will feel wonderful." The Warden's chuckle was muffled as she used her teeth to pull off the thick leather gloves she wore. Long, delicate fingers picked at the laces and buckles that kept her pauldrons held tightly to her shoulders. Traveling without Zevran and Leliana was difficult, since they had been the ones to make sure she was securely armored whenever they left camp. The Warden knew how to fasten armor properly; it was just damn difficult to fasten it on one's self. More and more she understood why knights had squires and manservants, and Loghain had even remarked at the loss of his own attendants.

Out of necessity, they had been each other's attendants. The Warden helped Loghain lace in and out of his armor, while he did the same for her. Mostly this had been done in the relative safety of an inn, and never before in the open woods. It was a risk, since Ferelden was not devoid of bandits and highwaymen who would easily seek to make prey out of them.

"You can borrow my polish, if you need it," called the Warden over her shoulder, fingers straining against the tightly fastened knot that held her left pauldron into place.

"I have some of my own, but thank you," replied Loghain.

The Warden winced as an already thin nail snapped and broke against the knot. She must have exhaled loudly, for Loghain's attention was upon her.

"Do you need some help?"

Turning over her shoulder towards him, and seeing that only his gauntlets were gone, she nodded her head. "I do."

He stalked towards her, running his fingers lightly over Dane's head as he passed him. He came to stand behind her, and noticed the way she bent her head forward, as if her pinned up hair was going to hinder him. He winced himself when he saw how small and tightly he had bound the coarse strings that kept the pauldrons firmly in position. Still, they were easier to tackle from his vantage point, and his fingers pulled and prodded until the strings fell apart from one another. Then he was free to unfasten the buckles that held them tightly to the rest of her armor. First, he removed the left pauldron, then the right, and each one that he handed to her she lay gently on the sack.

The Warden's shoulders sagged in relief as the weight of the armor was removed. Though only partially armored and accustomed to the weight, it was always a wonderful sensation to walk about without the cumbersome metal. Though made of thinly beaten mithril, and though Wade swore that her mobility would not be hindered, walking around with her armor on was like swimming with stones tied to her feet. Removing the armor was like swimming in the cleanest, coolest of waters, and she was not struggling for air or forced to swim in awkward and unnatural ways.

Loghain's hands lingered longer than perhaps was appropriate on the edges of his companion's shoulders, his hands reflexively squeezing the tight, sore muscles. He heard the Warden exhale softly at the gesture, and knew that the knots he felt below his fingers were quite willing to be worked out. But that was something she could do on her own time, or something she could ask him for, if she felt like it. It was not his place to suggest or offer.

His fingers skirted the edge of the breastplate, tickling the space between her shoulder and the metal. She lifted her left arm obligingly, and he stepped to her side, leaning back to watch himself work. He undid the clasps on the outside that held the breastplate together, and then set about undoing the laces hidden by their thick flap of leather that adjusted the breastplate's fit to the Warden's figure. Custom made, the breastplate did not fall awkwardly or heavily on a woman's body as might regular, standard-issue Ferelden military plate might. Instead, this breastplate tapered from chest to waist and then out again just before the hips to provide the correct amount of protection and support. It did not, to Loghain's pleasure, have a ridiculously large bust or an overly emphasized chest. Some of the sketches he had seen in Master Wade's Emporium had frightened him.

She giggled when his fingertips met her side. Loghain had discovered she was ticklish the first time she had asked for his help in this task. She had squirmed and laughed as he laced her up, and here he could see she was trying not to do the same as he unlaced her. He moved to her other side and she lifted her arm there too, and he set about repeating his previous motions. Every so often, his eyes would glance to her face, and he would find her staring back at him, looking at him from over the top of her arm. He gave her side a gentle pat to indicate he was done, and she was quick to rid herself of the breastplate.

They repeated the pattern with Loghain's armor, though with much less giggling, since Loghain was not ticklish. When he too was free and his armor was stacked carefully by his own tins of polish and wax, the Warden moved to the water's edge with a spare pair of breeches and shirt in hand. Loghain sat on a large rock by the shore, his back dutifully to the Warden as he heard her disrobe and then gasp.

"Maker, this water is _cold_."

Loghain merely chuckled, hearing her feet splash in the water and her tiny little gasps as she pushed further and further into the water. "Keep your eyes on that far bank," he instructed, taking a gauntlet in hand so that he could polish it. He heard her squeal in response, and he imagined that the river water was now just below her hips, chilling her flesh and lapping against her…skin. He scrubbed violently at what appeared to be rust.

A sharp exhale of breath and the breaking of the water's surface indicated that the Warden had gone under. She resurfaced with a loud, shaking exhale. Loghain moved onto his other gauntlet, cleaning away the grime that had gotten caught in the hinges of the fingers. He could continue to hear the Warden moving about in the river, disturbing the water with her thighs and fingertips. He guessed that the small splashing he heard was her dipping and ringing out her washcloth as she cleaned herself, and that the louder splashes was her rinsing out her hair.

When had Loghain last seen her with her hair down? He hardly remembered, if indeed he had at all. She always kept it bound up tightly. It must have been when she was younger, at some Landsmeet maybe. He wondered how long it was. Did it skirt just below her waist, like he had seen other young women wear? Or did it stretch down further, past the swell of her rear and the curves of her hips to linger at her thighs?

Anora had once asked him when she was young if she could grow her hair out to such a length, and he had objected that it was not practical. But willful Anora had grown it out anyway, and grew it longer than the thick, tangled curls of her mother. Celia had taken great pride in her hair, for as a cabinetmaker's daughter she had not had much earthly wealth to be proud of. Loghain picked and prodded at one of the gauntlet's joints. He being a farmer's son, Loghain thought he had much to be proud of: his parents had made an honest, decent living off Ferelden's beautiful soil. And he had told Celia that she should be proud of where she had come from too; there was no shame in being a laborer, farmer, or artisan.

"It is a shame that the woods cover up so much of the sun," commented the Warden forlornly, "I would have liked to have lain out on this rock to dry."

Loghain just grunted at the notion. "We do have ground to cover; we don't have time to stop for more than a few hours."

"I know."

Loghain heard the splatter of water on water.

"It just would have helped my hair dry."

She was wringing out her hair.

Dane, who settled at Loghain's side, immediately stood. He bounded to the shore, presumably to his mistress, and barked. He barked and growled at the far shore, at the snapping of a single twig that echoed over the river towards Loghain and the Warden.

Loghain was standing with his shield and his sword, turning to the source of the noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Warden, waist deep in the water, her hands up to cover her chest. Her hair hung wet and tangled over a shoulder.

"Show yourself," commanded the Warden. Her loud voice spanned the two banks and filled the air. "Or I'll set the Mabari on you."

A few more twigs snapped and then slowly, out from behind a tree, a small boy appeared.

"Loghain, it's a child," the Warden all but whispered to him.

Loghain, pacing along the shore with his weapons in hand, did not seem eased by the sudden presence of the child. "What is a child doing out all alone?"

"Ask him," she replied back, "not me."

"Boy," called Loghain, "what are you doing out in the woods alone?"

The child said nothing.

Loghain could see that the boy was quite small and scrawny, likely not more than five or six. He had come forward when called, but stood with his shoulders hunched forward and his stance wide, as if ready to dart away at any moment.

The Warden was carefully wading backwards to the shore, and Loghain could see how the water retreated away from her back, from her rear, and her thighs. Not to be distracted by the expanse of smooth, white skin that was being revealed to him, he directed his attention to the boy, to keep his eyes on him (rather than _her) _so that he did not disappear.

"I'm going to put my tunic on," said the Warden quietly, "and swim across to him."

He scowled. "Don't be ridiculous. He could be a lure, and there could be men on the other side of the river waiting for you to come across and help him. And then where would you be? Naked and separated."

"He's _bleeding,_" the Lady pulled her shirt over her head.

Loghain narrowed his eyes and squinted at the boy. He could see, even at this distance, smudges of dark, rust-colored brown on patches of the boy's ragged clothing, but that was no indication of him bleeding. "That's mud. Boys love to play in the mud. Part of a rite of passage."

"That isn't mud." The Warden turned to look at him, the dirty tunic she had been wearing earlier clinging to her wet frame. "And I won't stray far from the water. I promise."

Times like these made Loghain wish he had not abandoned the bow.

The Warden waded back out again, unaware that Loghain watched her with a thunderous scowl, and when the water became too deep for her to wade comfortably, she put her powerful arms and legs to use in a brisk swim. The river ran slowly and gently, and so staying afloat and keeping on track was not particularly difficult. The Warden had anticipated being swept fifteen feet or more down the bank before she reached her destination, but she was only going to drift five or so feet.

The boy watched her as she swam to him, still and stiff against the leafy backdrop.

As she drew closer to the boy and could get a better look at him, the Warden felt her initial judgments had been correct. The rusty stains that bloomed over his dirty clothing definitely had the appearance of blood. However, whether it was _his _blood or someone else's she had yet to determine.

"Don't go anywhere," she sang to the child quietly, "I'm on my way. I'm not going to hurt you, little one. You can trust me."

She was close enough to shore now that she allowed her feet to slip back down to the rocky bottom. The Lady waded in the shallows, consciously pushing down the hem of her tunic as it floated to the water's surface. Letting Loghain have a view of her underside was perhaps necessity, but there was no need to let the boy see what the Maker had in store for him when he was older.

Step by step, the Warden approached the child, the rustling of the wind hiding the way the stones of the shore slipped and wobbled beneath her bare feet. She shivered in the breeze, water dripping down her nose and chin. The hair on her arms and legs stood on end. Her back was cold where her long hair hung. She hoped she didn't catch a cold.

The boy, who had waited patiently and without a word, took a small step backward. His hair was matted with pine needles and dry leaves, and mud caked his face and fingernails. He was barefoot, and his pants and shirt hung loosely on his thin frame. The clothes, though little more than rags now, appeared more to be something a child might wear to bed based on the cut of the cloth and design of the trousers. He seemed to be some poor waif, or a phantom wraith, a child spirit that had drifted out of the woods to lure her into danger.

But his face seemed innocent enough. His cheeks were full, and their apples red and rosy, but his eyes were tired and lined with dark circles. Despite being thin, he had the physique of most young boys his age: wiry and lean from a lot of outdoor play and craftsmanship.

Shivering, the Warden sank down to one knee in front of the boy. Her wet hands came up and caught his shoulders, both to prevent his escape and reassure him. "Are you hurt, little one?" Her eye darted to the ominous blotches on his clothing, "are you well? What's your name?"

"I'm Tomas. And I'm not hurt, misses." His voice was high…childish. It was distinctly Fereldan, too. His tired eyes were a dark brown that matched the lank, matted hair on his head. They watched her, and the surrounding world, like a deer's: always darting, constantly on the move to scout for danger.

"Good, good," murmured the Warden, "I am glad you are not hurt. Why is your clothing so dirty then? Are you lost?" The Warden could feel the tenseness in the boy's muscles, how they shivered and shook as he stood before her, as if this was some great effort or fear of his.

He shook his head. "I ran away." Each of the boy's responses so far had been quiet, barely audible over the sound of the river.

The Warden sighed, remembering what it was like talking with children. Oren had been more than forthcoming with information when he had something on his mind, but getting straight answers out of him had been a different matter entirely. "Why did you run away?"

"There are monsters in my village."

An eyebrow raised high into the Warden's hairline. "Monsters in your village? What - "

"They're coming," the boy whispered, interrupting her question.

The Warden frowned, squeezing the boy's shoulder gently. "The monsters are coming?"

He nodded.

"What sort of monsters?"

The boy looked nervously over his shoulder, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I didn't see them, missus. They was in the dark. But they ate my brother and sister. They was going to eat me too, but I ran away." He looked back at her, eyes searching her face. "If you don't run away, they'll eat you too."

She scoffed at this. "You didn't see them eat your brother and sister?"

"I heard them."

The Warden bobbed her head in thought, mulling over this information, and just how calm this boy was. He was scared, terrified even, but he kept himself collected. "Did you tell your mother and father?"

"No, they wasn't at home."

"Where were they?"

The boy just shrugged. "Can you let me go now?"

"Don't you want to swim across the river to my friend and I?" asked the Warden. "We're Grey Wardens; we can keep you safe from monsters and help you find your parents."

"What's a Grey Warden?"

"We slay monsters," the Warden gave him a reassuring smile, "in simple terms."

"Oh." The boy didn't seem impressed. "The monsters will still eat you. But I've got to go now."

"You don't want me to protect you?"

The boy shook his head. "You can't."

The Warden squeezed the boy's shoulders again, her fingers kneading the skin below. "Why can't I protect you? I have a sword, a shield, and friends. I even have a Mabari."

"There are lots of men with _swoards_ in my village," explained the boy, emphasizing (though incorrectly) the Warden's weapon of choice, "and the monsters are still there."

"Where is your village, Tomas?"

Tomas pointed noncommittally down the bank. The way that he pointed ran parallel to the direction that the Warden and Loghain had travelled along the road. "That way." He put his small hands over hers, trying to pull them off, "I've got to go now, missus," the boy tugged himself out of her hands. "I don't want the monsters to eat me."

"Really," insisted the Lady, reaching for him again, "I can protect you."

But it was too late. The boy, Tomas, had used his small size and superior agility to duck away from her hands and dance out of her reach. He dashed away into the woods as she looked on, spellbound at the curious boy and his tale.

The Warden sighed and stood. Monsters? Monsters that ate _children_? The first thought that came to mind was that the creatures were darkspawn. Without the Archdemon to rally them, they had likely fallen into chaos and array. Such desperate behavior, eating children and preying on small villages, would be typical behavior for the darkspawn given such a scenario. However, the Warden should have been able to have sensed the darkspawn, and she wasn't feeling any nearby stirrings. It could have been that she was not close enough to their den or hunting ground to feel them, but there was always the possibility that there were not darkspawn involved.

And if there were no darkspawn, then what else in this world fed on human flesh?

A sudden chill ran down the Warden's spine, and she watched the woods around her warily. The monsters were coming; but from where? Were they on this side of the river? She could be being watched by such creatures at that very moment, and what good was she in her current state? No weapon to defend herself, no armor to fight off razor sharp claws and teeth…

Gradually she inched backwards into the water. Her gaze scanned the trees, sweeping them through the woody landscape even as she was waist deep in the river. She only stopped when she swam back to Loghain and Dane, and even then, she turned to look over her shoulder at the far bank. But there was nothing there: no sign of the boy, no darkspawn, no monsters. There was only silence.

"The boy ran off in a hurry," said Loghain as the Warden clambered out of the water to stand beside him. He watched her shiver in the air. "What was that all about?"

"He says he ran away from his village." The Warden rung out her hair again, careful not to drip water over the clean pair of breaches and shirt that rested nearby. "His siblings were eaten by monsters."

"Eaten by monsters?" Loghain shook his head. "There isn't a village nearby."

"He said it was in that direction," she pointed as the boy had, "parallel to where we just came from, but deeper into the woods along the river, I suppose."

"You don't seriously mean to go there, do you?"

"There could be darkspawn at that village. Coming out in the middle of the night, preying on small, weak things…" She gave Loghain a pointed look. "We're Grey Wardens. We have a duty."

"And if it's not darkspawn?" He countered, "What then?"

"Are you so opposed to helping a village," spoke the Warden, "or are you merely afraid of keeping our counterparts in Orlais _waiting_? Are you afraid of what they might think of us, might do to Ferelden, if we are _late_?"

"No, I'm afraid of what some man-eating creature would to do you." He closed the distance between them. He was so close he could feel the cold of the river radiating from her skin. "I – we- Ferelden nearly lost you once to some upstart templar." His thumb came up to gently press against the thick black eye patch she wore and refused to remove, "And that was supposed to be a _known _threat."

The Warden pulled away from his hand, from his touch. "I won't be alone this time. I will have you with me and Dane too. We'll investigate together. Fight together."

Dane barked his approval.

"When you talk like that, I find it hard to say no. But," Loghain shook his head, "we three may not be a match for whatever is troubling this village."

The Warden's eye narrowed. "When all help had failed and all the troops had thinned, it was Wynne, Dane, Morrigan, and I that slew the Archdemon. Four of us, _four _of us against the might of the Blight. Whatever is troubling this village should be no match for the three of us. Besides," her lips curled back into a wan smile. Coupled with her stern gaze and eye patch, it made for quite a sinister effect. "What you think shouldn't matter to me. Damn the opinions of others, yes?"

"I…" Loghain grunted. "Eating my own words." He turned from her and picked up the gauntlets he had let fall to the ground. "Get yourself dried and clothed. I'll help you into your armor when you're ready."

Nodding in response, the Warden put herself to the task. Rubbing herself vigorously with her dirty shirt and leggings, she traded her dirty smalls for clean ones, and then set about wiggling herself into her breeches. She carefully tied the bindings that held her breasts into place, adjusting, and tugging at the bandage for maximum support, and then finally pulled her shirt over her head. Perching herself on one of the large rocks along the shore, she slipped into the thick, woolen socks she wore on the road, and pulled them over her leggings up towards her knee. Next came the boots, and she laced those up as tightly as she could. Her fingers, still numb from the river, slipped and struggled along the thick laces, but the brute force of her tugging more than compensated for her lack of agility.

She then tied up her hair. Facing away from Loghain, she pulled her patch down to her neck and tugged her hair through the band. With long-practiced fingers guiding her movements, the Warden's wet hair slowly coiled itself into a thick, shining braid.

She stood and turned to Loghain, who stood ready with her leg plates and greaves. He knelt down before her, hands coming up to place and lace pieces into position while she held them steady. His fingers brushed against hers as she bent further forward to assist him as he continued to slip and latch pieces into position. From one leg to another he went, until finally all the pieces of her leg plates had been locked into position.

The Warden helped him stand, gripping his elbows as he rose. He winced, and they both heard the audible pop of the bones in his knees.

"You are old."

Loghain looked at her, nonplussed at the statement.

"Well," the Warden said with an impish tone, "you are."

"And you are oh so very young." He bent to pick up her breastplate and then held it out to her so she could step into it. As he had freed her from it, so too did he imprison her back to it. Laces were pulled taught and hidden, and clasps were clipped and closed. Her pauldrons were next, laced and secured by sure hands. The Warden was capable of attaching her own vambraces, couters, and gloves.

As she finished putting on her armor, Loghain readied the horses for departure. He straightened their saddlebags and put away the various items that had been taken out during their too brief stay. When he was done, he slipped on his gauntlets.

"It is a shame," remarked the Warden as she in turn bent for Loghain, assisting him with his own leg plates, "that you did not get to bathe."

"The dirt won't kill me, neither will the smell." He chuckled. "It'll probably kill you though. Being too clean only invites sickness."

"Whatever you say, Loghain."

At last, they were ready to leave. Fully armored and prepared for battle, Loghain and the Warden freed their horses from the tree branches and led them back the way they came. Dane followed at the rear, tail wagging at the prospect of moving away from the water. Back through the swampy grass and to the road they went, Loghain observing the map as they went.

Based on the geography of the region and the way the river flowed, Loghain could guess the relative location of potential sites for a village. There would have to be some path from the main road leading to it, and he distinctly recalled passing by two such potential paths a little more than a mile or two back. And sure enough, there was indeed a faint pathway leading from the main road where Loghain had remembered it to be.

The path did not seem well used and lay faintly against the ground. Whoever used this road did not use it often, if they used it at all. Still, Loghain's skilled eyes could see that it traveled into the tree line and broke through the woods distinctly.

"May as well follow it," said the Warden, reading Loghain's expression of uncertainty. "At the very least, maybe it'll take us back to the river."

Loghain merely nodded, tugging Gharin down the small, poorly traveled path. The only sign it was in use at all was by the way the tall grass had been trampled and stamped down to form a clear avenue for traffic. The path up to the woods was clear of rock and debris, and was wide enough for two people two walk side by side or one horse to be ridden comfortably. This didn't change when they broke through the boundary of the woods, though the path in the woods was harder to discern. There was no broken and trampled grass to guide the Wardens; instead, there were stone path markers. Huddled in groups of three, the stones outlined the trail through the forest.

The Wardens walked for a half-hour, following the rock-guided trail, before they entered the sunny clearing where Tomas's small village was.

Split in two by the river they had visited previously and connected by a thick wooden bridge, the village appeared quite ordinary. It was how any little village in the shadows of the woods should look like: wood and thatch houses, dirty streets, and livestock pens. What was surprising was how large the village was: for a settlement so far out into the woods, the clearing was surprisingly large, and the size of the town too. It was, perhaps, a little bigger than Lothering, give or take three or four homesteads. But the village seemed empty. The livestock pens were bare, the streets clear, and the shops closed.

"There's no record of a village here," said Loghain as he observed the scene before him, "and where are all the villagers?"

"And all their cattle." The Warden chewed her lips in thought. "Curious. There's not even templars guarding their chantry."

"That big building there," Loghain pointed to the largest of the buildings, "do you think that might be their mayor or their clerk's home?"

"It might be. Let's go have a look. Be on your guard." The Warden clucked her tongue at Dane, who set into a trot ahead of them. With his head low to the ground, he sniffed at the dirt as they walked, passing over the bridge to the other side of the town.

As they drew closer to the houses, a sense of uneasiness began to wash over them. A stink hung heavy in the air, which both Wardens recognized as the cloying stench of panic. Like stale urine, it clung to the wooden walls of the houses.

Loghain's nose wrinkled. "There's something foul here."

"I told you," replied the Warden as she moved to knock on the door they had stopped at.

No answer was forthcoming on her first set of knocks, and so she knocked a second time. "Hello, is there anybody in here? I found a boy called Tomas; he said your village was set upon by monsters?"

At the mention of Tomas, the door swung open, and from the gloom inside a thin, balding man peered out. "Who – who are you?" he asked, "And how do you know Tomas?"

"We are Grey Wardens," explained the Warden, "and we met Tomas upstream of here. He said you had a problem."

"We do have a problem," the man ushered them in, "come in quickly and I'll tell you."

The Warden nodded. "All right, let us tie up our horses…"

"No!" the man gripped the Warden's arm, "there's no time."

"No, really," the Warden tried to dislodge herself from the man's vice like grip, "these horses were expensive and have sentimental value."

The man looked pained as he spoke. "You can put them in the chantry. That's where the templars are keeping those animals that are left."

"You're using the chantry as an animal pen?" The Warden gaped in disbelief.

"Sensible enough," said Loghain from over the Warden's shoulder, "their doors are large enough to let several oxen through comfortably."

"Well, let us take our horses over to the chantry, and we'll be right back." The Warden managed to pull herself away from the man's spindly fingers.

He just held up his hands and backed away from the door, closing it as soon as the Warden was free of the doorway.

"That man is quite scared, wouldn't you say so?" Loghain pointed to the building opposite them, the one with the widest doors and statues of Andraste in its small courtyard. "That's probably their chantry."

The templar who greeted them at the chantry was friendlier than the man they presumed to be the mayor.

"Oh, do come in!" he said with a smile, ushering them in. His long, graying hair hung loosely over his poorly kept armor. "I have been here with the animals for quite some time now! It will be nice for company. I haven't had company since I've been in a company, oh, it has been such a long time… I think your horse wants some tea! I find that when they purse their lips they often want tea…I'll have Brother William make him some tea. Brother William is my horse, you see."

"I think I would have rather left my horse outside," whispered Loghain into the Warden's ear, "this templar is lyrium addled."

The chantry smelled like a barn, and it acted as one too. No rushes littered the floor, instead there was only animal excrement and haphazardly thrown feed. Horses brayed, goats and sheep bleated, and there was the distinct clucking of chickens from some dark alcove.

"A lovely chantry you have here. Where are the sisters of Andraste?" asked the Warden.

"I don't know!" The templar threw his hands in the air, his rusting, failing armor creaking at the movement. "All I remember is that I was guarding the sheep with them, and fell asleep. When I woke up, they were gone, and so were most of the sheep! The sisters were awfully fond of their sheep…"

"I…see." The Warden tentatively followed the aged templar to the back of the chantry, where he gestured that they tie their horses up to the grand state of Andraste herself. The Warden shut her eyes tightly as she wound Brake's reins around Andraste's outstretched hand. Somewhere, this was probably sacrilege.

Loghain did not seem as troubled by the task, mimicking the Warden's movements with none of the wincing.

Dane gave a farewell bark to the two horses.

"You take good care of them, brother," instructed Loghain. "Now, we're off to meet with your leader."

They returned to the mayor's house, smelling more like beast than man.

The Warden knocked on the door, "Hello? It's the Grey Wardens, we've returned."

The door opened and a thin hand beckoned them in. The Warden looked over her shoulder at Loghain, who gestured for her to enter.

"Ladies first," he mouthed at her.

The Warden frowned at her companion and stepped over the threshold, engulfed almost immediately in the darkness. Like the outside, the air smelt of stale sweat and piss. Her nose wrinkled. Dane nudged himself between her legs, and she could feel him panting rapidly.

The Warden found that Irving's Enchanted Orb worked best in the dark, when her other eye was unable to see as well. More clearly was she able to see shapes and movement, and here in the gloom it was no different. Her enchanted eye made out the silhouettes of three figures huddled by a tiny candle. Shapes of furniture were pressed against the walls and windows, as though this place was a makeshift barricade. Stairs to a second story were also blocked off, save for a tiny passage at the far wall. A curious set up indeed.

"Tell me," said the Warden, striding to the candle and the figures hunched by it, "what troubles you so that you must live like this?"

"A great darkness," said a woman's voice, "has descended on the village."

The mayor shut the door as Loghain entered, barring it with a thick piece of oak plank. He joined the Warden by the candlelight, introducing first his wife, Iris, his twin daughters Lyra and Braith, and then himself, Jacob.

"A pleasure. I am Warden Aurora," the Warden touched a hand to her breastplate, "and this is Warden Loghain."

"A pleasure to meet you both, though I wish you had come at a better time." Jacob sat on one of the vacant stools and wrung his hands. "I'm sorry about earlier, things have been so bad lately…"

The Warden nodded. "We understand. What has you so spooked?"

"Every night we are visited by terrible creatures," explained the mayor, "they butcher our horses, break into our homes, and carry us off into the night. The baker's wife even saw her own son being eaten in his bassinet with her own eyes."

"That sounds terrible," the Warden shot a glance at Loghain to gauge his reaction. He did not seem particularly enthralled or upset at the news. "What did it look like? Humanoid, with grey features, sharp teeth, and oozing skin?"

Iris shook her head. "She said it had a bulbous head, with long and spindly legs. Top heavy, with long, sharp teeth." Iris put a hand to her forehead. "She said it swallowed her husband whole when he tried to attack it. It just unhinged its jaw like some brush snake and devoured him. The poor dear, she still hasn't recovered. She's been walled up in one of the rooms of our inn, and refuses to come out."

"What is the name of this place, Jacob?" asked Loghain. "As far as I knew, there were no such settlements in this part of Ferelden."

"This is Roamswood." Jacob's hands continued to twist. "We've been here for several years now."

Loghain continued, "Are you registered in Denerim for tax and protection? You have a chantry, you must have been registered somewhere. Because I've never heard of Roamswood, and you might say that I know a lot about Ferelden and her settlements."

"No," Jacob said quietly, "we're not registered in Denerim. We came from Westhill. We had… disagreements with the Chantry there, and they made it clear we were not welcome. So we left, and have made our own life here."

"A life that was going well until the Maker has sent his demons to punish us," Iris whimpered into her hands. "Why has he ignored our prayers?"

"Mother, he did not ignore our prayers," said one of the girls, "he has sent us Grey Wardens. The Grey Wardens are part of the Maker's holy army."

"Yes…" Iris gathered the girl who had spoken into her arms, "yes, I suppose you are right, my darling."

The Warden drummed her fingers in thought against her vambraces. "Have you been attacked recently?"

"Every night," Jacob's eyes darted to the barricades around their home, "every night they come. We hear them moaning and screaming outside, clawing at the walls to get in. A few homes are broken into every night. We are most fortunate when no one is taken, but that has not happened for several days. They come with the darkness and leave with the darkness. We've been powerless to stop them. The only thing that holds them at bay is the strength of our walls, windows, and doors."

"I…see. Tell me," asked the Warden, "are you close to any magical sites or shrines?"

The mayor shook his head, "I don't think so."

"There is no creature in this world that could eat a man alive, unless it slipped through the Veil. I thought this was darkspawn but," the Warden looked at Loghain, who mirrored her expression, "I have my doubts now."

"Where do they strike most often?" Loghain looked between the four frightened faces. "Where is most of the town hiding?"

Jacob wet his lips with a dry tongue. "In our inn. That's where many of our villagers are, those who have homes that are too weak or too far away to make a proper stand. It is next door."

"Why is your home larger than the inn?" the Warden's fingers continued to drum.

"This isn't our home," sniffled Iris, "this is the town hall. Our home is across the river."

"Why are you in the town hall, why aren't you with the rest of the villages?" pressed the Warden further, "what is it about the inn that isn't good enough for you?"

"They don't want to be part of the most appetizing target, I'd wager. Here," Loghain gestured to the ruined space, "they're close enough to be safe but far enough away to be safe too. Still," Loghain looked to the door, "I'd take my chances in the inn. If they only carry a few off every night, better that there be more of a selection than just my wife and daughters. Maker forbid they carry us all off while we're here alone and isolated."

"You wouldn't see them coming, anyway. Once night falls, if you haven't locked yourself up tight enough, then it's already too late. There's nothing you can do." Jacob pointed his thumb at the window, "only one exit, and only three windows. Our odds are better here than at the inn, with its cellar and its windows and its many doors."

"Then it looks like tonight we'll be staying at the inn, since they need our protection the most." The Warden inclined her head at the mayor and his family. "I wish you all a pleasant evening. We'll go make our preparations at the inn."

The Wardens made their way next door to the inn, where they found the innkeeper and his wife tending to about twenty-five villagers in their common area. Here there was a fire blazing and food being served, and while everyone ate their meals with grim faces, the area was not so gloomy and depressing. At first glance, no one would have guessed that these were people beleaguered by demons.

They explained their intent and situation to the townsfolk, some who gave them appreciative nods, and others who merely disregarded them. The Grey Wardens and Dane paid for their meal and ate with the townsfolk, who were silent now with the intrusion of their supposed saviors.

As night came, the fire in the fireplace was put out and chatter in the common room stopped. A few candles were lit around the premise. Families huddled against freshly erected barricades, eyes alert and wide as the hours stretched out. A mother braided her child's hair while she sat crying into a ragdoll. There was no father in sight. A young couple murmured sweet reassurances to each other in a dark corner, both pressed as far back into the wood as they could get, as if blending in might save them. The innkeeper held his wife's hand, and they shared a sad stare as the light of their candle danced.

The wind whistled and wailed around the building. Dane was nestled at the Warden's side, his large head on his paws. The Warden sat with her shield on her arm and her sword lay across the table. Loghain sat the same way across from her. Between them sat a single, solitary candle that wiggled and waivered.

Slowly, light by light, each of the candles flickered and died, until there was only the candle left between the Grey Wardens.

And then, as midnight struck, it too was extinguished.

* * *

_Dun dun dun! The plot thickens! Who, or what, could be terrorizing the village, and how will our fearless Wardens and their faithful Mabari companion put a stop to it! Tune in next week for the final installment of this two part thriller of Trovommi Amor! Actually, it could be three parts. We'll see what the muses say. You'd have thought they'd be in Orlais by now, but noooo. At this rate, they're going to just have to take the boat to Val Royeaux, or else they're going to be helping every small village they come across. Oh well. _

_As always, lots of love and thanks go to Lady Winde for being an awesome beta: I hope the chapter helped you feel a little better, my lovely! And of course, much love goes out to the readers, both new and old, who keep inspiring me to write. Thank you all so much for your support and feedback! _


	22. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"My darling?"

Aurora's head rose with a start.

"I'm sorry to have startled you, but it appeared you drifted off in the middle of our conversation. Your poor old mother doesn't bore you that much, does she?"

"Uhm…" Aurora shook her groggy head. "No, never, mother. I suppose I just didn't sleep well last night." She ran a hand over the planes of her features, wiping at her bleary eyes. "Tired."

Eleanor Cousland smiled at her daughter, taking the thick book from the girl's lap and placing it on the small table beside the chairs they rested on. "I have no doubt. It seems Marius inherited your terrible colic."

"Marius?" Aurora frowned, the name unfamiliar. Then, as if a torch had suddenly been lit, memories came flooding back to her: feeling the gentle swell of her belly for the first time, the agonizing hours of childbirth, and then the sensation of holding a warm, screeching bundle in her arms. The first time she peered into Marius's bright, ice blue eyes sent chills down her spine: no Cousland had eyes so pale and blue.

The child had inherited his father's eyes.

Aurora smiled fondly. "Yes, he doesn't sleep well. The colic." Last night had been a particularly awful night, and the babe had not slept one wink and had kept his darling mother and father awake with him. He'd probably kept up the rest of the household too. "Nothing eases him. My poor Marius."

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. "I can be ashamed he didn't inherit your father's eyes, yes?"

Letting loose an exasperated sigh, Aurora playfully slapped at her mother's hands. "You say that every time we talk about him."

"Well!" Eleanor folded her daughter's hands back on her lap, "it is true. I have always had a weakness for men with dark eyes."

"I think Marius has lovely eyes." Aurora leveled her mother with an even stare that denoted this topic of conversation was over. The other woman's tone had been less than welcoming, chiding almost.

And why would her mother always be harping about the poor child's eyes?

_Oh,_thought Aurora. _Of course._

Her mother had always disapproved of the marriage.

"_He is so much older than you, Aurora. While I won't stop you from going where your heart leads you, I do want grandchildren, and I don't want you to be alone for most of your life,"_she had said.

But it hadn't mattered. Caution be damned and loneliness forgotten, but Loghain Mac Tir was just so…just so _intriguing._He was a war hero, learned, handsome, and had such an honest, natural perspective on things. Some found him dull, but Aurora found him engrossing. She had stalked him at court, played hard to get, and it had taken the better part of two years to whittle down his resolve to speak with her, let alone _touch_her.

"_I am old enough to be your father," he chided, touching her cheek softly with his fingertips. "And I do not think this body is young enough to give you the children you," he smiled ruefully, "or your harridan of a mother so desire."_

Yet, like all men he had succumbed. To her charm and her wit he had fallen, and she had struck the final blow with a rosy-colored kiss and a sway of her hips. They were married and not more than a year later she had been fat with his son.

A son! More than she could have dreamed for. And ever since the first moment she had held his tiny body in her arms, it had been love.

"Could you give me a granddaughter next?"

Aurora frowned. "Mother! I am not some breeding mare. Let my poor body rest and recover. It has not been more than three months since Marius's birth!"

"Well, what do you expect? Oriana gave Fergus _four_sons. _Four_sons! Not even a granddaughter. Who am I to fuss and dress up?" Eleanor _tsk_ed several times. "There are plenty of Cousland boys running around. I'll take a Mac Tir granddaughter in a heartbeat."

"Speaking of Oriana," said Aurora, quick to interrupt her mother before she could get any further, "where is she?"

Eleanor frowned. "I don't know. Probably in the gardens somewhere. She does love to garden."

Aurora raised an eyebrow. That wasn't true. "No, she hates gardening. Fergus teased her too much about growing poisonous herbs and flowers for her to enjoy it any longer."

Her mother mirrored her expression. "Truly? I had no idea, why, I thought she loved it. Always such an active girl, Oriana, I thought it must be from doing such chores. Oh well," she smiled, "you learn something new about your family every day."

"Yes…" Aurora's eyes darted to the book her mother had taken from her, and her hand reached out to take it from the table. "So what were we talking about before I dozed off?"

"We were," Eleanor said, "planning your trip to Denerim."

"What do I need to go to Denerim for? My home is in Gwaren."

"And you used to say your home was in Highever!"

A new voice, mellow but masculine, floated from the doorway.

Aurora looked over her shoulder and smiled at her brother, who smiled right back at her.

"Fergus!"

"Hello, my lovely ladies!" Fergus swooped into the small reading room, perching himself precariously on the arm of the chair on which his sister sat. "How are you doing this fine evening?"

"Is it evening?" Aurora groaned. "Ohhhhh, but it feels like I just woke up."

"Children will make that happen." Fergus patted his sister's shoulder gently, "the wonders of new life. They turn the world upside down."

"Yes," Aurora laughed weakly, "I suppose that's true. Anyway, why am I going to Denerim again?"

"Shopping, of course!" Fergus's fingers squeezed her shoulder gently, "Oriana wants to take you to the finest tailors in Denerim, so that they can make you new dresses. Apparently, after childbirth, women don't look the same. This is amazing news to me."

Aurora shook her head in protest. "My clothes fit me fine. I have no need of new ones."

"Nonsense, you've become so slim!"

Her mother's words sent a flurry of confused emotions through Aurora's mind. She looked down at herself, not feeling any slimmer, but found that her hips did not even touch the sides of the chair she sat in. Normally in such a dress, she would fill out a seat with ease, but not today it seemed. Her dress seemed to hang loose and untidy on her much smaller frame.

Fergus chuckled. "My poor baby sister, you look so addled! Perhaps some fresh air would clear your mind?"

"I must _really_have slept poorly," Aurora scrubbed her hands over her face. "I feel groggy and I can't…_see_properly. Everything is hazy on my left side, cloudy." Where her right eye saw fine, her left eye was only blurry and showed transient, disfigured shapes that did not make sense in the context of her vision. She saw dark, dull shapes in her left eye, but they did not exist when her right eye examined what the left had. It was disorienting and giving her a headache.

"Fresh air then." Fergus helped her stand, cupping her arm gently as she rose. "Are you joining us, mother?"

Eleanor shook her head. "No, Fergus, I shall stay here."

The Cousland children nodded to their mother and took their leave of her.

"She's still in shock, I think, that you managed to marry Loghain Mac Tir."

Aurora scowled at her brother. "Everyone keeps mentioning this. Why did I ever come back to Highever in the first place?"

"To give birth, of course!" answered Fergus rather glibly. "Don't you remember? You couldn't stand to give birth in Gwaren because of all the mud."

"Really?" this surprised her. "I came back to Highever to give birth because I didn't like the _mud_? That's absurd."

"You were a bit off during your pregnancy, I will admit." Fergus dodged the hand that his sister threw his way. "I'm teasing, I'm teasing." He was too slow to dodge the second blow she sent his way, and winced, rubbing his shoulder. "Ouch! Little sister, where'd you learn to pack such a punch?"

"You taught me. Well," Aurora smiled ruefully, "you and our weapon's master."

"Me?" Fergus chuckled, "I didn't teach you how to fight. Except maybe to fight off that Thomas Howe. Ugh."

"You were always good friends with Thomas, Fergus."

Her brother shook her head. "I was not. I've never been friends with that vile scumbag. He is just bad. He is evil, as is his father."

Aurora just nodded. She agreed with his sentiment, she hated the Howes too. They had insinuated themselves into the Cousland household and committed the greatest betrayal. But the death that they had wrought had returned to them, and the Howes fell with their ambitions. They had murdered her family.

A memory, triggered by the hot wave of emotion, floated to the surface of her thoughts.

"_After this, Howe, I'm going to slit the throats of your wife and daughter."_

"_Isn't that precious? Is this where I lament the monster I helped create? Let me show you how it's done. I made your mother kiss my feet before she died. It was the last thing your father saw. Meet my sword, little spitfire, and change that."_

She halted mid-step, bile creeping up her throat and into her mouth. She put a hand to her face in disgust. The Howes had murdered her family? She looked to Fergus who watched her, confused at her stopping. They could not have murdered her family; she had just been with her mother. And if the Howes were dead, why would Fergus refer to them in any sort of present tense?

None of it made any sense, and she wanted to attribute it to a bad night's sleep, but something in her gut _told_her that it was true. The Howes had murdered the Couslands.

And, her gut told her, the Couslands had murdered the Howes in turn. Throats had been slit; heads had rolled. Vengeance had come in the grave stare of Fergus Cousland and the steel might of his sister, the Warden Commander Aurora Cousland.

"_Delilah, no, no, I don't yield!"_

"_What about now? Do you yield now?"_

"_T-Thomas…maybe they'll show us mercy. The Couslands have always been fair and just. Maybe they'll let us go! Just…just yield. It can be all right. It has to be all right!"_

"_Do you yield, Thomas Howe?"_

"_I yield. For my sister's sake, I yield."_

"_Fergus Cousland, Thomas Howe has yielded, victory is with you. What do you wish of the Howes?"_

"_I want their lives. That is what I wish of them."_

That is how history had been written, her gut told her, sending goose bumps down her arms. The memories were real. The Howes were dead; Eleanor and Bryce Cousland were dead. Fergus Cousland ruled Highever. Aurora – the Warden – was alone. This reality was not right; it was fake.

"Aurora?" asked Fergus, "are you all right?"

"No." She shook her head, laying the trap for him. "I was thinking about Rendon, actually."

"Getting fat taxing his banns and freemen to death," his tone soured.

"Hm." Aurora chewed on her lip, considering his answer. He persisted in the belief that the Howes were alive. It was just one more in a list of too many things that did not make sense for her liking. She had no memories of anything that her 'family' spoke of, until they spoke of it. Her reality, it seemed, was being created moment by moment.

As though she were dreaming.

"Sister? Sister?" Fergus's hands were upon her, gently shaking her. "Are you with me?"

Aurora shied away from her brother, pushing him to arm's length. "No, I'm not. This isn't real."

"What, are you mad?" Fergus chuckled, "are you truly saying I don't exist? Don't be absurd. I'm right here!"

"You're not." She raised her hands defensively before. "You're not _you._"

"I _am_me!" he protested at the accusation. "I'm Fergus Cousland, your brother!"

"Fergus Cousland would know that the Howes were dead," Aurora narrowed her eyes. "Because he ordered it himself. I was there. I carried out the order."

"I…I didn't." Fergus shifted nervously. "I…I just hate the Howes."

"Why are you nervous, _brother_?"

"I…I…" Fergus's shoulders twitched, and then suddenly he was upon her. Four sets of hands pawed at the Warden, while a mouth filled with hungry teeth stretched wide over her face.

The Warden's hands rose to protect her face, fingers catching the edges of the creature's jaw. With all her strength, she stretched the thing's mouth wide, forcing its mouth to extend past its normal reach. Sharp claws dug into her back and tore the dress and the skin just below it to shred, but she wrenched that jaw apart and did not stop until she felt something pop and snap beneath her hands.

The beast that wore her brother's face howled in pain, spiraling away from her, its many hands clutching its jaw.

Recognizing that the dreamscape was supposed to be a mockery of Castle Cousland in Highever, she removed one of the many ornate weapons that hung on the corridor's walls. Her father had always appreciated fine craftsmanship in a blade, and had collected them. In her hand, however, was an axe and it was just one more example of how poorly crafted this dream was.

The Warden drove the blade of the axe down into the wounded demon's back. "Next time," she hissed, "try not to make my mother so much of a harridan!" In fury at the mockery of her precious memories, she hacked away at it, and with a squeal of pain, it disappeared.

With the demon's departure, the walls of the illusion dropped. The castle melted away around her feet, leaving her standing in the middle of a twisted landscape. It reminded her of the time she had spent in the Fade at the mage's tower, trapped by the Sloth Demon who had the Litany of Adralla. The trees here were barren but fruit bearing, the weird, many-eyed peaches and apples that hung from their branches a perverse mockery of their real world counterparts.

Her back burned from the demon's claws, but looking over her shoulder, she could see no wounds, no tears in her flesh. Indeed, she couldn't even see her back because of the heavy breastplate she wore. She was dressed in her armor, looking exactly like she had when she'd fallen asleep in the tavern beside Loghain.

Speaking of which, the Warden eyed her surroundings for a sign of her companion. Beneath her feet there was clearly a path. Behind her, the path disappeared into a thick forest and before her, the path disappeared into a cave.

The Warden knew that whatever it was that had trapped them there had created a reality for them based on portions of their memories. Her own demon, whatever it had been, had picked from her mind that she was from Highever, loved her family very much, and despised the Howes. However, it had pieced together these fragments very poorly, leaving too many inconsistencies between the dream state and the reality for her to truly believe the illusion. The demon had merely guessed when it came to explaining the deep emotions she felt.

As to what sort of demon she had just faced, the Warden had no idea. Her knowledge of the Fade and its inhabitants was limited to the scant journal entries she had found in the Circle Tower, and that was not enough for her to make an accurate judgment as to what she had faced. What she did know was that the demon was weak and perhaps inexperienced…which raised the interesting question: was there such a thing as a _young_demon?

And if there were such a thing, why would it go after _her?_She was possessed of tremendous willpower!

She felt insulted, but the feeling was quickly washed away as she began to consider the world that the demon had created for her. It had made her a mother and given her a beautiful son. It had created memories of the child's conception, pregnancy, and birth…the only memories she would ever have of such an experience, for the Warden was unlikely to bear to children in her lifetime.

Did the demon read past the barriers she had erected, the walls that went so deep even she was beginning to forget her deepest fears and dreams? And if it did, was that what it had found? The empty hope of being a mother? Had it also found _him_there, lurking within the shell of her childhood dreams?

She frowned. "Time to stop moping and mucking around, Aurora," she said aloud to herself, "or you'll never find Loghain and get out of here."

Shaking her head to clear away the thoughts, the Warden looked between her two options. She did not know Loghain well-enough to guess where his dreams might take him. The forest could have been anything: it could open up into the River Dane, it could be his childhood, she just didn't know. Likewise, she didn't know what the cave was, either. He had mentioned in passing that he'd been through the Deep Roads before, but this was the Fade. That cave could open into the interior of a house for all she knew.

She was convinced that Loghain had not awoken, for if he had, this shared dreaming would have collapsed already. Defeating the demons at the heart of these little Fade pockets was the key to escape, and she had defeated hers (or so she thought). Loghain had not defeated his; why else would they still be trapped?

And so the choice had to be made: into the woods or into the cave?

She turned towards the forest, intent on following the path through the weird trees. A sharp, shooting pain lanced through her skull, her left eye seared in agony. Through it, she could see many shapes moving, though her right eye did not see anything and it stared in the same direction. Quickly, she turned back towards the cave and the pain stopped. It was highly unlikely she could fight, or concentrate, through the distracting pain. The cave, then, it would be.

The Warden walked towards the mouth of the cave. The rock shone faintly as she approached, emanating a pale blue light. Its surface was slick, moist, and reaching out a gloved hand to touch the surface, she found it surprisingly pliant and porous. It was almost as though the cave were a living thing.

It did cross the Warden's mind that this could be the maw of some giant Fade beast, and that she was happily bumbling straight into its stomach. She did have a big sword, however, so if this thing really did eat her, she was damn well going to gut the creature from the inside out.

She put a tentative foot over the threshold of the entrance, waiting for something to lash out at her from the impenetrable darkness. But nothing came. Her foot touched only free air, though she lost sight of it as soon as it passed into the opening. She knew it was still there, just out of sight, as though it were being magically shrouded. Shrugging, she followed after it into the thick gloom.

Passing through the black shroud that was the mouth of the cave, the Warden entered into a well-lit passageway. The blackness behind her did not recede and it obscured the warped trees and strange blue glow of the outside. There was only a yawning, pitch hole in its wake.

The stone of the passageway was low enough that she could reach up her hands to touch it, and she did exactly that. On the inside, the rock did not feel as soft or as wet. It felt and looked like rock should. Fears assuaged that she wasn't about to be eaten, the Warden ventured away from the relative safety of the cave's – tunnel's – entrance.

There was a definite slant to the path she travelled, and as she found herself going deeper into the earth, she was beginning to recognize the architecture of the thick slabs that kept the tunnel roof from collapsing down on her. These were definitely _dwarven_symbols carved onto the stone. She had seen them before, in the thaigs…in the Deep Roads.

Was that where this illusion was taking her? To the Deep Roads? Why would Loghain be there?

She descended further, feeling the shift in the air as she delved into the ground. The passageway seemed never to end, always turning and twisting her path. Every corner she came to she held her breath for fear of finding another stretch of passageway. So it was that she was _quite_blue in the face when she finally did come to the passage's end.

The tunnel opened into a huge underground space. Crumbled paragons held up the massive ceiling, while the ruins of an ancient settlement littered the ground. Half-broken walls were scattered around, and she could make out the faint shapes of houses amidst the rubble ruins, their empty doors and windows staring at her mournfully. There were only a few buildings still in good shape, but these were open and lifeless in the bright light of the area's many braziers.

In what appeared to be the center of this massive town, there was a raised dais. Loghain stood in the center of it, his head bowed. He was dressed in a fine red tunic, the delicate silver embroidery catching the light of the flickering torches to wink at the intruder. Absent were the long, unbound hair and the small temple braids. Instead, his hair was bound in one thick braid down his neck.

That was all the Warden could see of him, for he faced away from her. Around him, she could see four stone slabs, each carrying a draped figure.

The Warden picked her way carefully through the village, her eyes fixed on the sight before her. "Loghain?" she called, allowing her voice to carry across the chamber to him on the stale cavern air.

But he did not seem to hear her, or if he did, he did not acknowledge her.

"Loghain?" she called again.

Once more, her companion did not respond.

She ascended the dais, boots scuffing heavily over the worked stone floor. She had come close enough to Loghain to see the patterns the embroidery had woven on his shirt, could reach out her hand and touch his shoulder if she chose to. She raised her hand to do so, but just as it was about to reach him, Loghain moved away.

"They're all dead." He said. "They're all dead because of me."

Loghain approached the stone slab before him, standing at its base as he looked over the veiled figure that lay there. The Warden moved to his side, watching the way his hand stretched out to grasp the shroud, how it trembled as he slowly tugged the thick cloth down the length of the figure's body.

The shroud revealed a woman. Her long black hair was set loose about her shoulders, and her hands were folded on her stomach in deathly repose. Her garb was simple: a brown apron, a rough spun dress of white wool, and thick brown boots that were so typically Fereldan. The woman's eyes were closed as if in sleep, and she looked deathly pale against the dark rock on which she was laid out.

One stray lock of hair marred the woman's otherwise perfect appearance.

Loghain moved to straighten it, his fingers brushing against the soft skin. "I am sorry, mother, that I could not save you."

A thin, red line appeared along his mother's neck. Slowly, it began to open. Blood, bubbling and hot, gurgled outward from the wound. It rushed hot and heavy over the stone, pooling at the ground beside Loghain's feet, staining the soles of his boots. Bruises began to appear on her face, big, purple welts that swelled and disfigured her features. Her nose bled, as did her mouth, as cuts on her lips appeared.

Loghain looked away, horrified.

"They raped me, son," said the battered body. Her vocal chords partially severed by the red grin below her chin, the woman's voice came out no more than a gagged, breathy whisper. "You saw what they did to me. How they slit my throat after they were done with me."

"I'm sorry."

"If only you had left, fled to the woods like your father told you, I wouldn't have died this way. I could have grown old, played with your children. But no," his mother let out a long, gargled wail, "Ooooooh, but you could not leave your father's side, you wanted to fight, and so condemned me! If only you had run!" Her back arched as her hands clawed at the slab and she chanted at her son, whose hands had clenched into fists, "if only you had run! If only you had run. If ONLY you had run. IF ONLY YOU HAD RUN."

"My place was with father!"

"IF ONLY YOU HAD RUN."

"We had to protect you!"

"IF ONLY YOU HAD RUN!"

"There was nothing I could do!"

"IF ONLY YOU HAD RUUUUU-aa-ee-ccck…" Loghain's mother crumbled to ash before his eyes.

Loghain pawed at the ash, fingernails scrabbling at his mother's remains. "I'm sorry."

The Warden laid a gentle hand on Loghain's shoulder. "Come away from her, Loghain. Don't linger with the dead."

He ignored her, ignored everything, until a voice from one of the stones cried out, "Are you? Are you truly, Loghain?"

Loghain's head rose. "Rowan." He moved as a man tied underwater, his movements slow and sluggish as he fell to his knees beside the figure that had the voice of Queen Rowan Guerrin. Wincing, Loghain removed the cover from her face. He looked to be afraid of what lay lurking behind the thick cloth.

But it was only Rowan Guerrin. Lovely Rowan Guerrin, who lay pillowed on the glorious mass of thick, brown curls that had enraptured and entrapped men. "Loghain, are you sorry?"

"If you are asking me," replied Loghain quietly, "if I am sorry that I 'murdered' your son, then no."

"No," Rowan's head shifted from side to side ever so gently in protest, "are you sorry about us?"

"Us?" Loghain bowed his head, "there was no 'us,' Rowan."

"There could have been." The dead queen's lovely face drew up into a sad smile, "I never had to marry Maric. I never had to be Queen. I only did it because you asked it of me. Because I thought you…did not want me."

"I have always wanted you," he let out a rueful chuckle, "but it was not my place to have you."

"It was not your place to decide that. It was mine." Rowan drew in a ragged breath, her chest panting and wheezing as she began to cough. "It was mine to decide…but you bade me die alone."

"No," Loghain shook his head, "I didn't. Maric was with you. Cailan was with you."

"I died alone," she repeated, her voice sad, "with only Maric's pretend affection. He never loved me as you did; his passion never warmed me as yours did. I died alone. Alone and so cold."

"Stop saying such things!" Loghain cupped the pale white hand that she slithered his way, "You were a beloved queen, a revered wife, and adored mother. You had the entire love of a nation!"

"What are a thousand keys, if none of them fit in the lock?" She coughed again, a pale hand coming to cover her mouth. Black droplets splattered against her palm. "The world was grey and colorless without you."

"You were strong, stronger than I." Loghain's eyes widened as the hand in his began to shrink and shrivel, the skin hanging loose and shapeless around the delicate bones. "We had to do it. For Ferelden."

"For Ferelden," Rowan's words were as hollow as her cheeks. "Ferelden can _burn._"

Both Loghain and the Warden recoiled at the queen's words.

"No." Loghain rose, his hands coming to rest on the fading queen's shoulders, ready to shake some sense into her. "Don't say such things!"

Rowan gave him a skeletal smile before she expired, a sigh escaping her lips as the flesh on her bones melted away.

"Damn this," cursed Loghain. "Damn this place."

"Loghain?" the Warden tugged at his braid this time. "It is time to notice me, Mac Tir. I do not think I want to see anymore of your regrets. Please."

"Oh, Maker's mercy," he sighed wearily, unaware of the pulling of his hair. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "I think I can guess who is left."

"You always were so practical," said a low, feminine voice. "So honest."

"Celia." Loghain lowered himself to sit beside her, pulling back the veil only as far as her forehead, as much as his nerves would allow him. He spoke to the golden curls atop her head. "And how fares my fine Fereldan wife?"

"Alone as usual," was her reply. Celia's voice was husky and rich, a delight to listen to. "Willing to live as such, if it should please my lord Loghain."

"Do you have no regrets for me too, madam?" Asked Loghain, "Nothing to say to make me squirm?"

"Why should I say," replied Celia, "what you already know?"

"I did love you. In my own way," Loghain felt for her hand, "I did."

"You loved the idea of me, just as you have always loved the _ideas_of people. What they are, who they are. And then you resent us; you hate us when we do not live up to your expectations, to your judgments." Dark splotches of moisture appeared on the cover where Celia's eyes would be. She was crying. "And so you abandon us. You shirk your duty; you act no better than Maric, the man you despise! You go off to play king and avoid your duties as a husband and father!"

Loghain stiffened at his wife's accusations. "Ferelden needed my leadership."

"I needed your love. Anora needed your love. We left her motherless _and_fatherless! And for what? So you could pretend at being a soldier? At being the pauper-become-prince?" His wife hissed at him. "What made you a better man?"

"What made me a better man than Maric?" Loghain's eyes narrowed. "I never once _ever_cuckolded you. I _never_let my perception of myself interfere with what had to be done. I never compromised my principles! I knew exactly what I had, where I belonged, and what I had to do!"

"You cuckolded me with Ferelden," his wife responded bitterly, "And you never learnt your place. You _always_wanted to be king."

"No!"

As Loghain proceeded to refute his wife's arguments and convince her of the truth before she disappeared, the Warden was trying to figure out a way to break Loghain from this horrific dream of self-loathing and doubt. She spied the remaining draped figure. Each of these phantom women had been an important part of Loghain's life, but they also brought forth his insecurities. If she could break the cycle, perhaps she could end the dream.

She moved to the last slab. She removed the shroud herself, curious as to who lay beneath it. The Warden had been expecting Anora, thinking it the most logical conclusion after her mother. But instead, she found herself. Dressed in some gown she had worn when she was fifteen summers (and terribly bored at a Landsmeet), and with her hair tangled around her face, the Warden was the perfect picture of Fereldan youth in bloom. She noticed that this version of herself had no eye patch, had none of the scars or musculature that had come from her tribulations, and she wondered if this was how Loghain saw her: fair, young, and completely out of place in this crazy world. The notion amused her.

Young and fair she most certainly was, but there was no mistake that was _her_world. _He_was the outsider, the out of place one.

"All right, Loghain," she muttered, shoving the lifeless body from the slab. It hit the ground with a dull thud, and she watched it roll helplessly down the steps of the dais. "Notice me _now._" She carefully lowered herself down upon the stone bed, propping her shield beside it before stretching out uncomfortably on her back. Her fingers drummed on the stone as she waited for Loghain to finish with his wife.

"I _tried,_Celia. Please, I did try."

But Celia did not respond.

"Women," Loghain mumbled, "I'm some simpering fool. Who is left to haunt the haunted?" With the sound of boots scuffing stone, he made his way to the Warden. "And you. Why am I not surprised to find _you_ here?"

The Warden's eyes cracked open to look at him, regarding him through the thick shade of her eyelashes. He looked at her with a pained expression.

"The Hero of Ferelden, with her unnaturally short life. Bryce Cousland's spitfire daughter who, for good or for worse, decided she could handle the might of the Blight alone." He chuckled bitterly. "And I suppose you did, for here I stand quite alive, and there you lay quite dead."

"I am not dead, Loghain," the Warden fully opened her eyes, "surprise." She pulled herself awkwardly into a sitting position, noticing how Loghain stepped back. She gave him an indolent smirk, similar to the one she'd tossed his way on the way to the river.

His eyes narrowed. "And what have you to say to me then? What grievances would you lay before me?"

The Warden considered this. Loghain was expecting this illusion of her to berate him for his choices, for who he was. If she did the opposite, would the inconsistency be enough to draw him out of his dream?

She certainly hoped so. "I have no grievances, only thanks."

"Thanks? Why would you thank me? I let you die."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Die? I never died."

"I watched you slay the Archdemon. You died."

She chuckled. "Oh. That. Well, in a matter of speaking." She moved so that she was sitting at the edge of the slab, her feet scrubbing against the stone floor. "Physically dead. But I cannot be killed." She patted the space beside her.

Reluctantly, Loghain sank down on the space she offered. "And why do you say that?"

The Warden paused for dramatic effect. "Because I am Hope. I live in the hearts and minds of the people. In," she laid a gauntlet on his chest, "yours too."

"It wasn't right," he gently pushed her hand away, "It should have been me. It ought to have been me."

"Did you forget what I told you?" the Warden grinned, "that Ferelden needs its heroes? You used your reputation to great effect, rallied others behind your name and mine. I have no grievances, Loghain, just compliments."

"But I took the Princeling, Alistair, from you. I let Rendon Howe kill your family. I hunted and destroyed your order. You say, madam," he looked at her with suspicion, "that you only have _compliments_? After all I've done to make you miserable?"

"Indeed."

"That was," he sighed, "Not what I expected. Why should you be so different? By all rights, I've hurt you the worst."

"I am different," the Warden dropped her voice to that of a whisper and leaned into Loghain's ear, "because I am real. This is a dream. We're in the Fade."

"What? The Fade?"

"Yes. We've been trapped here by demons."

Loghain shifted away from her. "And what's to say you aren't a demon?"

"Nothing. You will have to trust me." She laid her hand on his, entwining their fingers, "Just like you did before."

He looked between their hands and her face, unsure.

"Do you trust me?" she inquired, giving him the most earnest look she could. "Can you trust me one final time?"

"I have nothing to lose, I suppose." Loghain nodded. "I trust you."

"NOOOOOOOOOO," a voice roared from behind them.

The Warden was quickly standing, her sword drawn and her shield on her arm. Loghain stood beside her, crouched in a position to fight. Together, they watched the limp, lifeless body of Aurora Cousland rise into the air. She hung as if suspended in water, her hair and gown rippling in an unseen current.

"He wassss miinnneee!" cried a voice that was not the Warden's from her mirror's mouth. "He wasss to feeeeeed meeee! I wasssss hunggryyyy! But twooo mmeeeaaaalllsssssss are better than oone!"

"The last one of you I encountered I ripped apart with my own hands!" The Warden snarled, "Imagine what I'm going to do to you with my sword, fiend!"

"You kiiillleeeddd hiimmm?" The demon in the Cousland corpse smiled, an eerie sight on the Warden's face. "No more ssshhhshhhshhhharrring. Mine!" It floated towards them, wicked claws sprouting from the tips of its pink fingers.

Loghain carefully positioned himself behind the Warden's shield arm. "Shouldn't I kill it?"

"If you can conjure a sword, by all means. This is _your_dream, after all!" The Warden stepped around the stone block and towards the demon. "Now, come try and take a bite of _this_."

Obligingly, the hunger demon came straight for her. Devoid of any tactics other than the need to sate its impressive hunter, it attacked her head on. The demon had created a powerful illusion for Loghain, but its dreamscape prowess did not lend itself to mortal combat. It literally _flew_into her blade, pushing the soft, mortal body against the finely beaten steel. The Warden had felled the demon and its possessed body, almost laughably so.

"Heh," Loghain eyed the pile of ash the demon had left behind, noticing the way that the floor was cracking around the corpse. "I expected more."

"As did I. Let us hope," the Warden winced at the sound of stone grinding against stone, and saw that the cracks around the demon were beginning to flit and filter towards the walls, "that we see each other on the other side!" She offered Loghain her hand.

After a moment's hesitation, he took it.

And with that, the Deep Roads collapsed all around them.

* * *

_Blehhh. Inspiration just refused to come this chapter, so my apologies if it seems weak in comparison to the other pieces. It all got used up on the 2010 Blizzard Writing Contest. Oh boy, I hope I win! Nothing impresses folks more than a Frostmourne replica and a book writing deal! lololol. *crosses fingers*_

_As always, lots of love goes to Lady Winde for being my wonderful muse and beta (buy a new scanner please!), and lots of love goes to the readers, both new and old. I adore sharing the story with all of you!_


	23. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Loghain awoke to the sound of crumbling rock. His body tensed, his hands coming up to cover his face and neck from the falling rocks he knew were on the way. His body shook violently, echoing the feel of trembling rock even though the hard ground below him was still. After a few agonizing moments of waiting, he let his body relax. He was not about to be crushed.

Shakily he got to his feet, his hands scrabbling against the strap of his shield that his boot found resting not too far from him. Armed, he searched for his companion, the Warden, but could not see much in the gloom. He spun, head catching a low hanging chain. He cursed, hand coming up to touch the lump on his forehead. His wrist knocked against the low ceiling, giving him a face full of dust for his attempted triage. "Aurora!" he whispered harshly into the darkness, "Are you there?" He struggled to wipe the stuff off his face.

"I am," said a voice quietly from behind him.

The older Warden felt something scratch against the back of his breastplate and come to rest between his shoulder blades. "I can't see anything."

"I can," the Warden replied. "Irving's eye, it works in the dark."

"Useful to know. What can you see?"

"Barrels, actually. Or, what I _think_ are barrels. They could be genlocks; they're about the same height. But no," the Warden shuffled about in the darkness, moving fearlessly to one of the stout objects along the wall. She stretched out a hand and then tentatively let it sink down atop the thing. Her hand met the surface with a low, wooden _thunk._ "Definitely barrels." She grinned.

"We're in the cellar?" Loghain frowned. "Feel the wall," he suggested. "If it's manmade, maybe we're in the cellar of the inn. They'd be bound to have one."

The Warden did as he asked, her hand slipping up the wall. She could vaguely make out the shapes of irregular stones inlaid within the wall, but as her fingertips found the shallow grooves where the stones met, Loghain's suspicions were confirmed. "Cellar."

"Can you see a way out?"

She scanned the room around them. "Barrels, barrels, more barrels," she said in a hoarse whisper, "and I think there's a staircase behind us. It is hard to tell, I'm not used to all these shapes. Oh!" Her eye found a 'dark' spot on one of the walls, "And I think there's a big hole in the wall to our left."

"Do you think that's where the creatures are coming from?"

"Maybe? We don't really know unless we go investigate. Say," she frowned, "I can't see Dane."

"Maybe they didn't take him. Maybe they left him above with the others." Loghain's armor creaked as he shrugged, the dirt that he had accumulated on his pauldrons floating away at the movement.

"If there are any others left. If they got into the inn, there's no reason to stop them from taking all of the villagers." The Warden sighed. "There were a lot of them in there. Let's go in."

Loghain scoffed at the idea. "We can't just go traipsing into the dark like some Orlesian festival day parade. Well, maybe you can with your magic eye, but I need light to fight with."

"Well, no place to go except up then. Maybe we'll find some sort of light source in the inn. Just follow the sound of my boots," the Warden shuffled her feet on the stone for emphasis, "and you'll find the staircase."

"Watch my back for anything that comes out of that hole."

The Warden scurried up the stairs first, hands above her head to find the trapdoor that would bring them back into what she hoped would be the inn's kitchen. Her gloved fingers scraped against an iron rung and, putting her shoulder to the wooden ceiling above her, she gave a mighty push upwards. The door squealed open, revealing no more light than the cellar below.

"It is dark up here too."

"I hadn't noticed," replied Loghain grimly. "If only your explanation of the obvious could shed some real illumination."

"I will kick you back down those steps," the Warden said, the smirk evident in her voice, "if you continue with the insults." Irving's enchanted eye spinning in her head, the Warden took stock of the room. It was the kitchen as she had thought; she could make out the shape of what was likely the grand hearth they used to cook with, as well as cabinets and crates filled with crockery and grain. "I am going to light the fire."

"You don't think the smoke and the light will attract the creatures?"

"Loghain." The Warden sighed, moving into the kitchen so that Loghain could stop hovering on the staircase, "do you or do you not want light?"

He sighed in turn. "Light it, then."

"Thank you." Stepping to the hearth, the Warden searched for the flint she knew had to be close by. With the hiss of air against leather and metal, the Warden sank into an awkward crouch, her fingers scratching the dusty stone. Her hands met the box that contained the kitchen's flint, and with a zealous flip of the lid, she reclaimed the light they had lost. Slipping out the hunting dagger she kept strapped to the back of her boot, she struck it against the flint. Sparks showered out, causing her to wince at the sudden onslaught of light.

Some of the sparks caught in the half-burnt kindling in the hearth's mouth, growing from a few specks of orange light into a much brighter blaze.

The Warden turned to Loghain, who was already using the glow of the fire to scout for materials for a torch. She found the barrel of pitch in the corner of the room, while Loghain worked to round up the kitchen's dishrags and cloths. With several sharp kicks, he also made the bases for their torches from a half-repaired table's legs. Binding the rags around the table legs, dipping them into the pitch, and then letting the heads catch the fire's flames proved an effective method for easy and practical torch making.

With their torches raised, they went to investigate the common room.

It was empty, save for a sleeping dog.

"Dane," called the Warden gently, crossing the distance and gently nudging him with the toe of her boot. "Time to wake up!"

Dane growled and grumbled, rolling onto his back and trapping the Warden's foot underneath his not inconsiderable mass.

"Ser Dane of Highever," she reprimanded, shaking her leg and thus also the dog to no effect.

Loghain let out a sharp, high-pitched whistle.

Dane started from the floor, jumping nearly three feet into the air in surprise. Upon landing, he tucked himself between his mistress's legs, growling at Loghain who had made the frightening noise. His stumpy tail hung as low as it could.

"I think you startled valiant Ser Dane."

"I think valiant Ser Dane is a bit of a coward."

Dane growled.

"Oh, very well," Loghain sighed, seeing the way the dog glowered at him, "I took you by surprise. There, are you happy? Stop staring at me like that."

The Mabari didn't. Instead, he just leaned his weight heavily against the Warden's left leg, whining.

"None of that," the Warden jerked her leg in response, "we have a village to save. While we were sleeping, demons took them away."

"That means," explained Loghain, though not necessarily for Dane's benefit, "that we have to go underground."

"Do you have an aversion to being underground?" asked the Warden. She gave him a small smile, "I hope not. You're a Grey Warden, what lurks in the deep earth is your responsibility now."

"I know that. And yes," he gave her a pointed look, "If you gave me the option between warren and wood, I'd as sooner choose the wood."

"Unless they were Orlesian woods." The Warden winked at him in the gloom, "and it was a Fereldan warren."

"Don't knit pick me, girl."

"Of course, of course. Now," the Warden gestured to the door they had come from, the light of her torch glinting on her gauntlet, "we have a village to rescue, don't we?"

Loghain led their way back to the cellar, his torch held in his shield arm. The Warden her torch in much the same manner. Behind them, Dane trotted eagerly. His large paws were completely silent on both stone and wood, the only detail of his passing being the large paw prints he left in the dust and dirt.

Light from the torches revealed that the cellar was empty and filled with barrels, and that the large hole in one of the walls had been caused by something knocking it in from the other side. The bricks and mortar were scattered along the inside of the room, looking to have been pushed inward. Two large piles of soot rested before the entranceway's mouth.

Dane bounded through the hole, clearing the small clutter of rubble and soot at its base with an agile leap. He pranced on the other side, barking down into the dark chasm.

Both of the Grey Wardens carefully followed him, lifting their legs high to avoid tripping on the still-intact brickwork. Their torches licked and scorched the ceiling and walls, exposing a pattern of meticulously placed stone.

"This looks like a man-mad passage. Look at the stone work, Loghain murmured, his eyes wandering along the curious looking stone. Though it was slate grey at first glance, he could see veins of blue and green running through it. "I think there's lyrium in the stone."

"Try not to touch it."

Loghain chuckled. "I'm trying not to _breathe _it."

"Good point."

The intricate stonework beneath their feet slanted gently into the ground, and the Warden was reminded of the long passageway she had been forced to travel in order to reach Loghain in the Fade. While the stones and the way the passage twisted gently were vastly different from the harsh angles and geometric squares of the Deep Road tunnel, the Warden could not help but fear that they were about to encounter ghosts of the past.

And Loghain, who kept his thoughts and fears to himself, could not help but also be worried for the same outcome.

The darkness ahead of them seemed impenetrable, and they passed no wall sconces, no braziers, that they could light. They only had the merry twinkling of the blue lyrium veins in the stone as they caught the torch light. The lyrium veins curved down the passage, guiding the way. It was when the veins stopped sparkling that the Wardens realized they were nearing the end of their journey. The lyrium in the stone seemed drained. Dull. Sapped of energy. It no longer sparkled, it hung dead and grey in its stone casing.

Dane's keen senses picked up the sound of something shambling slowly towards them from down below. The drag of skin against stone was almost palpable, and the Mabari froze in place. He ducked his head low and growled, baring his teeth in the dark.

Their current exploration arrangement was going to cause them some problems should whatever coming up the passageway be hostile. The passage was not wide enough for the three companions to fight side by side, especially if both the Grey Wardens decided to use their shields. However, both Wardens could fight abreast if they used only their swords and were mindful of the other's proximity to their torch.

Or one could use their shield, while the other used their torch, as the Warden was quick to show Loghain as she cast her torch to the ground and slung her shield down from her shoulder. The Warden nudged her torch to the wall, mindful of the way that Dane's paws were pushing and kicking at the ground. She did not want her Mabari to burn his feet.

In the unsteady shadows cast by the torches, a weird and twisted figure emerged. With a naked humpback and vellum-white skin that looked as though it had been melted, the abomination shuffled into view.

Dane crouched low, waiting for his mistress's permission to strike.

And the Warden was going to give it to him, having long since learned that parlaying with demons was foolish, but then the creature opened its mouth to speak and what it said gave her pause.

"Please!" begged the voice of a young woman, "I'm trapped!"

"Of course you're trapped," replied the Warden blandly, "You gave yourself over to a demon."

"I didn't! I swear!" The girl-turned-abomination clutched at her face, her twisted and broken hands plucking at the flaps of skin that hung loose around her mouth. "He took it from me by force! I'm not a mage! This isn't my body!"

"You could have had the potential. You could be lying to us. Dane," the Warden's sword flicked towards the thing in their way, "have at it."

Dane launched himself at the abomination, teeth chewing and tearing at its arms.

"Nooooo!" it shrieked, "please! They took everyone! They're turning them into monsters! We aren't mages, we're just farmers! Please! Stop the ritual! Don't kill me!"

"Creatures from the Fade have to possess bodies to exist in this world." The Warden watched Dane take a chunk of flesh from the creature's arm. "If that isn't your body, then whose is it?"

"I don't know! I was like this when I woke up, but it isn't _mine. _Oh, please, stop," the abomination sobbed, "oh, please, stop. This isn't my body, I don't want this."

"Dane."

The Mabari pulled away from the abomination at his mistress's tone, understanding the command for what it was. He remained crouched, ready to strike, as his mistress brushed by him, her shield jostling him as she slung it up over her shoulder, and knelt by the bleeding creature's side.

"And say I stop," cut the Warden's silky smooth voice in the dark, "what then? Would you seek to claim my body?"

"N-no!" It grasped at the Warden's arm, "you need to fi-find them. You need to save my fam-fam-family. They are down there. With them."

"_Them? _The people who did this?" Loghain stood tall over his crouching companion, dipping his torch down over the Warden's shoulder.

"I…I don't know. They're mages, I think. Or-or demons." The creature's eyes darted between the two Grey Wardens. "They didn't notice me leave."

"How?" Loghain frowned, "You aren't exactly inconspicuous."

"They were in the middle of a ritual. Their backs were turned. I…I don't know."

The Warden's eyes flitted down the passageway the creature had come from. "You're going first. If you try to betray us, I will skewer you and send you back to the Fade, or wherever it is that you came from." She stood, shifting back against Loghain to give the fallen abomination room to stand. She scooped up her wayward torch along the way.

The creature stood with the wincing and wheezing of an old man, clutching its bleeding and mangled forearm tightly to its bloated chest. It shied away from the double torches that glared at it, frog lips grimacing as it shambled back down the tunnel, back to the demons it had escaped from. It whimpered as it walked, each trundling footstep irritating and jostling its injuries.

To the unsympathetic Warden Commander and someone she was beginning to think of as her second, the hassling had been necessary for their safety. Both were ready to slay the beast at the first sign of treachery, which they fully expected. After all, it was not as though their most recent experiences with magic were of the pleasant sort.

The Warden trusted mages, respecting their power and the self-control it took to use it, but she trusted nothing that came out of the Fade, not even its most benevolent spirits. Loghain did not trust anyone and was ambivalent to most plights that weren't directly related to the security of his homeland. He saw mages as being easily manipulated by their fears and those of the Chantry, and therefore liabilities in the grand scheme of things.

All it took was for someone to cry, "Demon!" and the mages would be occupied for weeks, trying to mollify the Chantry and create new practices that protected their precious Circle Tower. They made for unsteady allies and even more tenuous friends.

Down, down, down the four of them went, stopping only when the abomination could go no further, its body shaking violently from fear and pain. In the tunnel beyond came a glowing green light, and it was at the sight of this that the creature put its long fingered hands to its face and moaned.

"Its ahead," it whispered, "_They're _ahead."

"Remember," said the Warden as she passed by the creature, leaning in to speak to what she assumed what was its ear, "if you attempt anything, your life is forfeit." The sword in her outstretched hand glittered menacingly in the light.

The thing could only bob its head, letting itself sag against the wall in much needed respite.

Dane and Loghain gave it a wide berth as they passed, following their fearless commander into the glowing green light, and as they drew nearer to the passageway's mouth, the truth of the situation was revealed.

They were in an underground Tevinter shrine, and it was nothing like they had ever seen before.

The light was coming from four enormous braziers that burned brightly on a center platform in the middle of the antechamber. Water glistened and swirled far below the central platform, flirting and dancing with the edges of the thin walkways that seemed to just barely float on its surface. Staircases connected the walkways to the central platform and the passageways leading out, though all the passages save the one on which the Wardens stood were caved in.

Around the room in bursts of ancient glory stood massive Tevinter statues. The tall, stern-faced men wore the garb of ancient archons: the _dalmatica _hung long on the body and shone bright white, reflecting beautifully against the bright blue of the _chlamys _that hung draped over their right shoulders. The tall hats they wore, with their high domed peaks and sharp-turned brims, were painted a rich, glittering gold that caught the green light and sent it sparkling across the star-painted domed ceiling.

That these statues stood in near-perfect condition, their painting still intact and as luminous as the day the last coat of paint had set, spoke to powerful, ancient magic and air that had been sealed away for centuries.

Why and how this magic had been released was not on the forefront of the Wardens' minds, however. They were more concerned with the swaying mass of naked bodies amidst the braziers.

Perched at the lip of the passageway and just on the edge of the first stair, the Wardens peered across at the tangle of limbs and flesh. Loghain counted thirty bodies, of which only seven were standing. These seven danced a terrible and primal dance, twirling wildly between the braziers. Those not spinning and throwing their hands in the air either lay on the ground inert, or were bound to thick shackles on the floor.

All of the people shackled and all of the dancers they recognized as villagers from the inn. Those individuals who lay still and unbound were unfamiliar, their faces tightly drawn and withered from what appeared to be extreme age. Most of the villagers were naked; the only evidence of their clothing being the stray sleeve or pant leg that slowly crisped over the lips of the braziers.

"It looks like some terrible orgy," the Warden said to Loghain, unable to draw her eyes away from the glistening, swinging breasts and thick, dangling manhoods of the dancers. They swayed and gyrated to unseen music, spinning on their tiptoes around the mouth of a shallow pool in the central platform that was half-concealed by the shackled bodies all around it.

"I think its blood magic," he replied back to her, "look at the cuts on their body." And indeed, the men and women who were freed had long lacerations on their forearms and thighs. "The creature said that they took her body...I suspect they are using blood magic to steal the bodies of the villagers."

The Warden couldn't help the curl of disgust to her upper lip. "But who is _they_?"

"Probably Tevinter mages. This place looks like a shrine, but it could be a tomb." Loghain's eyes scanned the floor and the walls, noticing again how the faint lines of lyrium in the stonework looked as though they had been completely drained. "Or a prison."

"If it was a prison, maybe they made a bargain with the demons we encountered for their freedom? Opened a rift in the Fade to let them through?" suggested the Warden, her stare somber. "And this place is old…perhaps they're using the bodies of the villagers as you said, as a way to get out of here. Or maybe there's nothing left of the mages, maybe they're just abominations now, abominations in new bodies?"

"Maybe. I wouldn't know much about these things. Whatever they've done, we'll have to put a stop to it."

"Agreed." The Warden sighed, "Times like these make me wish I was more arcane-inclined. The Litany of Adralla would be very useful right about now."

"While I'm sure the Litany is very important, it isn't here, so let's not waste our time," Loghain responded in a curt tone. "While I hate an obvious frontal assault, it appears it is our only option."

"Maybe we'll even get up the other stairs." The Warden's voice was dry, "before they notice us."

"They may not at all, if we're lucky, since they let…" Loghain was hesitant to call the abomination a 'girl,' "…it…got through."

"We won't know until we find out. I'll go down first." The Warden carefully placed her torch on the ground, its light unnecessary with the nearby braziers. With slow, precise movements, the Warden lowered her shield over her shoulder and down onto her arm. She tightened the straps, shutting her eyes tightly as the leather creaked and groaned. "I should have oiled the leather."

But the dancers were not disturbed, nor were the villagers with their heads bowed.

Loghain followed the Warden's lead, placing his torch on the ground and pulling his shield from his back onto his arm.

The Warden had only taken her first step when suddenly the green fire of the braziers shot high. It was then that one of the withered bodies on the ground rose, crawling and creeping to the central pool on bony, spindly legs. It was so old it was sexless, merely a mass of skin and veins and bones. Its hand grasped at a sharp knife that lay red and glistening by the pool's edge before it toppled in, face first. A villager screamed as one of the dancers stretched forth her arms, lifting the poor woman from her shackles and flinging her into the pool to float beside the ancient body.

The two figures in the pool embraced, the parchment thin lips of the old Tevinter mage seeking purchase on the fuller lips of the woman that the Wardens recognized as the innkeeper's wife. She struggled, her hands pushing against bone and sinew, while the old mage carved her back with the blade's edge before slicing its own hand and rubbing it against the woman's wound.

The fire roared high above their heads, sending sparks of green energy floating downward into the pool. The innkeeper's wife screamed before she was completely submerged in the green fire, disappearing with the Tevinter mage from the Wardens' sight as the pool was set ablaze.

The Wardens shared a horrified look at one another before turning back to the gristly scene.

The innkeeper's wife emerged from the fire, striding with a confident sway of her hips through the flames. Water dripped and drizzled down her form, soaking the curls between her legs and running in clear rivulets down her large breasts. Her eyes closed, she licked her lips, drinking in the water before she too joined in the dance, in the _ritual. _

The old form of the Tevinter mage lay helpless, still and face down in the pool. It was only with a magical flick of one of the dancer's wrists that it was sent spiraling away into the murky water below the platform.

With their horror well checked and with deliberate steps, the Wardens and their Mabari crept down the staircases as silently as they could. The chink and jingle of their armor must have been drowned out by the sound of the roaring fires, for no one took notice of their coming, save for the Tevinter statues that glared solemnly downwards.

The dancers only took note of the Wardens when they saw Lady Grey's head appear over the platform's edge, her face grim and her good-eye narrowed.

"O!" called one of the dancers, the others slowing and then coming to a full stop as they took in the source of their sister's disturbance. "O!" she called again, putting her hands on her ample hips, the long fingers stroking the flesh. Wickedly she smiled, addressing them in ancient Imperium, a language neither of the Wardens could understand in the spoken form.

The body snatching mages gave the Wardens bemused grins, chattering amongst themselves while the Wardens approached with their shields at the ready and their Mabari at their heels.

"Awwwwwwn," crooned a voice out of the innkeeper's wife that was not her own upon noticing Dane. She clucked her tongue at him, cooing at him from the edge of the pool, and only laughed when he growled at her in response. She chattered something quickly to her compatriots, who nodded their approval.

Two of the eight blood mages began to chant, stretching out their hands as they murmured their words of power.

Cold fingers tickled the skins of the Wardens, slowly driving their way deeper downward into the warmth of their bodies. Chills settled in the Wardens' guts, their hearts staggered in their rhythm, and their lungs ached for breath in the cold. Loghain's lip curled upwards in a snarl, but he found his face frozen at the effort. Warden tried stepping forward, but found her legs were too numb to obey the command.

One of the mages spoke to her, his chant ended, and ever so slightly twisted his hand in her direction.

With the pain of a thousand tiny knives trying to poke their way up out of her skin, the Warden found herself being dragged forward towards the now laughing, cackling mages. Her feet walked with a will that was not her own, and every attempt at resisting the mage's influence was met with sharp, lancing pain through the soles of her feet. She tried to call to Loghain, to yell at him to flee, but found that her voice was not her own either. She felt like she was back in the Circle Tower, watching Cullen murder and rape those girls, unable to do anything to stop him.

Her will was her own, but she had no control over her body by which to execute it. She was certain that if the mage had really wanted to, he could have taken control of even that.

With careless flicks of her wrists, the Warden was forced to drop her sword and shield. Her now freed hands spread over the armored plains of her waist, her hips swaying to the sluggish rhythm of her heartbeat. She danced, imitating the gyrating and twirling of the mages as they had cast their spells. She turned on the balls of her toes, light as air, her muscles not knowing the weight and strain of armor. Her hands she threw into the air, stretching her fingers out wide to the huge dome above. She smiled a wide and rapturous grin, her eye half-closed.

Loghain was receiving much the same treatment. He had also been forced to abandon his arms and, like her, his body was bobbing and swaying to that primal, unheard heartbeat. He bobbed his head and shoulders, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he danced. He wore a mirror of her ridiculous smile, but the depth of his resentment, his desecration, was reflected in the icy pools of his eyes.

The mages clapped and chanted, the two controllers of the Warden sharing long looks before they shared in an ear-to-ear smirk.

Loghain started towards the Warden, his steps fluid and confident. No doubt, he was trying to fight the control the mage had over his body, but his resistance did not show in his countenance. With the boldest of smirks and surest of movements, his hand came up to touch her cheek. The gauntlet perversely caressed the skin there in a fake lover's touch, thumb skimming just under her eye patch as he stroked her tenderly.

Looking deep into her eyes, he spoke to her in their ancient tongue. His deep voice whispered long-forgotten arcane words as he leaned forward, closing his eyes as he smelled her hair. His breath puffed hot and warm over her cheeks. His chapped lips skimmed her forehead.

The Warden responded back in the same language, her tone and inflection as natural as though she had been born speaking it. She tilted her face upwards to his, her hands coming to rest along his breastplate. She closed her eye as his lips gently slid down her nose, laying tiny kisses as they passed.

The hand on her cheek grasped her chin, lifting it as his mouth slanted down over hers.

The Warden's hands scrabbled for purchase on Loghain's chest as he deepened their kiss, parting her lips with a strong tongue. Hers eagerly met his, dancing and dueling with it in a battlefield of shaking breaths, sharp teeth, and soft sighs. She won the battle, nipping at his lower lip playfully. She caught it between her pearly teeth, tugging her fleshy prize with a sultry curve to the corner of her lips before Loghain's other hand assaulted her rear end, squeezing the armor and tickling her tasset. The Warden's hips ground into his. Moaning, she released him, her face turned up in ecstasy at his simple touches.

The mages roared in laughter while the Wardens unwillingly suffered their violation.

Meanwhile, the Mabari who had growled, skulked, and then finally hunkered down to avoid attention had gotten back to his feet. He slunk as low to the ground as he could, trying to find cover behind the shackled forms of the townsfolk. His mistress and master were not themselves; they smelt foul and stale. They smelt of magic, of rancid water, and Dane hated both of these things.

With his keen nose, he could trace the smell on his masters back to the source, and so his targets were easily identifiable for attack. And no mage, no matter how great their concentration, could keep casting while a war dog ripped and shredded at their throat.

Dane launched himself (clearing four villagers in the process) at the nearest controller, teeth sinking into her chest. He shook his head violently from side to side, stripping pieces of flesh from the mage's body as she shrieked and pawed away at the dog, too surprised to focus her energy.

Loghain dropped from the mage's spell, his head feeling as though he had dived head first into water from too far a height. Dane's growling and snarling kept him in the present, and he roughly shoved away his amorous commander. He plucked his hands from her body, his mouth from hers, and then extricated her hands from the seams in his armor where her fingers were trying to find purchase on the flesh underneath.

He scrambled for his sword on the stonework, ducking just in time to miss the spells cast his way.

A bolt of blue energy missed him but caught the Warden in her lower back, sending her lurching forward to the ground. The mage controller hissed and worked to bring her back to her feet, buying Loghain enough time to cross the distance and slice at the mage's head. It rolled off the platform to join the old corpse it had tossed away earlier.

He moved onto the next mage, snapping his arm out quickly to silence her. His hand connected with the soft flesh of her lips, breaking her teeth and slicing open her face. Her hands came up to cover her wound, and he capitalized on the vulnerability by bringing his sword down on her naked back, slicing her in half. Blood splattered across his arms.

Loghain looked towards Dane and found the Mabari fighting alongside his mistress.

With her controller dead, the Warden launched a savage attack on the blood mages. After picking herself up and wincing at the dull ache in her back, she launched herself at the two closest mages while Dane moved on to a third. The two mages had raised their daggers and were about to strike at Dane's vulnerable backside when the enraged Warden knocked them to the ground. With her sword being too far away to use as a weapon, she resorted to her fists. She pounded her heavy gauntlets into the mages' faces, not stopping until their legs stopped kicking, and their glowing hands stopped clawing at her gauntlets.

The two mages left standing quickly clapped hands with one another before either of the three companions fell upon them. Their heads dropped backwards and blood spurted out of their open mouths and eyes. The crimson stream arched in the air between them, an arcane pattern forming above their heads. It grew rapidly in size and shape, the symbol growing larger and twisting rapidly between them. Tiny droplets of blood hung suspended in mid air between the two mages, shifting, and morphing in time to that of the main host.

Both Wardens knew that whatever the mages were casting was not safe for their health, and so Loghain did not need any command to attack. While the Warden scrambled around to gather her sword, Loghain had already charged forward with Dane at his heels. Loghain gave a great swing of his sword, catching both mages just below their ribcages. His well-sharpened blade sliced easily through their skin, a few inches shy of completely eviscerating them.

Loghain stared on, perplexed. No blood slipped from their wounds, as the very essence of their life force was floating in the air above their heads.

"Kill the blood!" shouted the Warden, her sword in hand as she sprinted towards them. "Kill the blood! Kill the blood! Don't waste time on them!"

Loghain stabbed upward at the shifting arcane symbol, scissoring his blade wildly as he disturbed and disfigured the old magic. The mages fell bodily to the ground, their legs cut from underneath them by an incredibly incensed Lady Grey and an equally ferocious Dane. Her blade soon joined his, and together they hacked away at the mages' blood, releasing all their rage upon it.

The blood roiled and wriggled away from them, trying to find purchase higher in the air to avoid the sweeping strikes and stabs of the Grey Wardens' weapons. Yet the Wardens had managed to snip away pieces of the blood mass, sending large orbs of blood splattering to the ground at their feet. They had also severed something within the symbol, for it was _bleeding _some sort of green energy and was quickly degenerating.

Dane barked and growled at the spreading pool of blood, biting and snapping at the air as he backed away from it. The Wardens were sole deep in it and unable to leave until they saw the last vestiges of the blood magic fade away into a shimmer of green dust. The green, unearthly tinge of the fire disappeared, the flames returning to their natural orange-yellow glow.

As the Tevinter magic faded, the villagers were pulled from their stupor and their shackles snapped open. Some screamed in panic as they noticed their situation: naked and splattered in blood. Others kept their silence or murmured words of comfort to their neighbors. The thin, shriveled bodies that lay apart from the villagers had faded into dust.

Loghain looked to the Warden, who was already striding purposefully around the platform, stabbing each of the possessed corpses in the chest to ensure their deaths. No mage made a sound as the blade passed through their ribs and into their hearts. They lay well and truly dead.

As the Warden carried out her inspection, Loghain moved to assist the villagers. He helped the shaken and weary to stand, clapping their bare shoulders gently to assure them it would be all right. Dane trotted behind him, licking the hands of those who were the most terrified. The most grievous injury Loghain could find was heartache, as those men and women who had lost their loved ones to the mage's possession were crying and mourning over their beloveds' mangled bodies. They wept silently, grimacing, accepting no help or recourse, but also extolling no blame.

He was surprised by their pragmatic acceptance of the situation: he would have thought they'd cast blame, cursed him and the Warden for what they had done. But they did not, they cried, said their goodbyes, and let the bodies rest.

Loghain was again proud of his practical people.

No one spoke a word as the Wardens led them single file back to their homes, back to the surface. There was no sign of the abomination in the tunnel, just a few splotches of blood and patches of disturbed dust.

"I would," advised Loghain to them, as they stood in the common room of the inn wrapped in their bed sheets and blankets, "not stay here. Go back to West Hill or to Denerim, beg whoever you offended for forgiveness. But do not tarry here."

The Warden stood by silently as Loghain steered the village on its course of action.

None of the villagers disagreed with him, each of them bobbing their heads in agreement. Whether their mayor decided to or not, they were leaving this forsaken grove and its secrets in the morning. Most were ready to return to the welcoming arms of the Chantry after this ordeal, hoping to find peace and comfort in the arms of the Maker they had once abandoned.

Not wanting to take up anymore of the villagers' precious time, Loghain dismissed them. He and the Warden watched them scurry away to their belongings, pulling on spare shirts and breaches as they hunted for their shoes and coins in the overturned common room. They stuffed their belongings into sacks and hugged each other tightly.

"I am going to tell the mayor what has happened," said the Warden in the smooth, low voice that often indicated dangerous intent. "I think he should know."

She did not give Loghain a chance to respond or entreat that he join her, having moved aside the door's barricade by the time he had found his voice. Like a summer's breeze, she slipped through the door and out into the night. She neglected to turn and smile reassuringly at him as she was often wont to do in such a situation, giving him instead only a view of her back as she departed. Dane squeezed through the door after her, his tail narrowly missing being jammed as it swung shut.

Though they were separated by no more than night air and a series of poorly laid stones, to Loghain it felt as though a vast ocean had opened up between them, an ocean filled with memories, regrets, and the press of a young woman's lips against his own.

* * *

_And now the journey continues to Orlais, after another Interlude! _

_Thank you to everyone for reading and the support! Lots of love to Piceron, Shakespira and Lady Winde for being utterly awesome women and slowly prodding this plot along with new ideas and outlooks._

_Oh, and fanmix has been updated, if you're keeping track of that! It can be found in my profile. _


	24. Interlude VI

**Interlude VI: The Landsmeet Part I**

_Arl Eamon's Denerim estate was a bustle of activity. Courtiers and servants roamed the grounds, all in preparation for the Landsmeet that their lord had called. Soldiers were arming, the maids were using the opportunity to get into those rooms of the castle normally too busy to enter, and messengers filtered in and out of the gates with their messages._

_Eamon kept his court private, and he, Teagan, and Alistair kept long hours day and night discussing the times ahead._

_The Warden had not been invited, and the sting of rejection lay heavy on her cheek, settling beside the smell of intrigue that hung just below her nose. She deserved answers. She deserved to know their plans. It made her bitter that she was not only being excluded, but also being kept on a tight leash. Anora had answers to the Warden's questions, but the young Queen was reluctant to share them because she saw the Warden as no more than Eamon's puppet. And Anora was probably right, of course. Eamon was planning Ferelden's future without her, keeping the Warden close enough to ensure that no one would talk to her, but far enough away that she could not hear him. She could not imagine that his intentions were bad, but she did not know what to make of his secrecy. _

_And so in the commotion, as her companions ran errands and Alistair was busy in discussions, she was left alone with her thoughts._

_Over the course of her young lifetime, the Warden had developed two habits to deal with stress: silence and pacing. The Warden religiously kept her tongue and her council to herself when something troubled her and instead she let her feet pour out the fury. And so it was with her hands clasped behind her back and her head bowed that Riordan came upon her in Eamon's library._

_The old Warden from Jader hovered in the doorway, watching the figure of the Warden pace about the room. Clad in a thin grey shirt, a peacock blue tunic, black breeches, and muddy black boots, Riordan nearly mistook her for some messenger waiting for Arl Eamon. He recognized her only by the harsh line of her lips, recalling that expression all too well from his time as a Grey Warden. Men and women had gone to their Calling with that look of uncertain determination. But even with her hardened expression, Riordan could not stop the second glance his eyes took down her figure, admiring her long legs and the narrow curve of her waist. She was quite a pretty girl, and she wore his favorite blue well. _

_'Face of Andraste,' they might say in Orlais of her; bright and beautiful in youth, but of grim countenance. Like Andraste, the young Grey Warden in front of him would sing no more of simple things. _

_He rested his weight against the doorway, allowing the oak to creak at his presence. He saw the Warden pause mid-step, her face slowly turning to look at him. Riordan had come upon her by surprise, but she did not flush in embarrassment as he expected her to._

"_Why are you pacing, lass?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. He gave her a soft smile. "If you do anymore, you'll have to buy our host a new rug."_

"_Riordan," she replied, avoiding his question with her pleasantries. He came upon her quite suddenly, but the Warden was not one to pass up an opportunity. He was the Senior Warden of Jader, and privy to information regarding the Grey Wardens and the Blight that she could use. "Hello, it is good to see you again." She returned his smile. It was tired but winsome nonetheless. "It is good to see you up and about. Word from the physicians was that you were still recovering from the burn wound to your back. I take it that it is no longer troubling you?"_

_Riordan stilled his hands from affirming her words, not wanting to touch the slick scars that crisscrossed his lower back from one of Howe's torture devices. "It is fully healed, and has been for several days. I have just been out in the city."_

"_Doing what?" asked the Warden with a curious cant to her head._

"_Attending to our Denerim vault." He shrugged. "While we have been unwelcome in Ferelden for some time, it has not stopped us from keeping a stock of supplies by which to fight the Darkspawn."_

"_Swords and armor?"_

"_Mostly, and a few other odds and ends."_

_The Warden gently draped herself on one of the couches she had been walking around, patting the space beside her for Riordan to join. She crossed her long legs as soon as he sat down, the toe of her boot playfully knocking against one of his knees. She rested her elbow on the back of the couch, propping her chin in her hand as she looked at Riordan. Her gaze was bright and attentive. "What sort of odds and ends? Anything we can use?" _

"_You would be welcome to all of it, lass," Riordan smiled at her, "and more. The other odds and ends that I speak of pertain to the Joining ritual. I had hoped to find it in our cache there as Duncan had suggested, but it has gone missing."_

"_Paper does not just grow legs and walk away," the Warden looked at him meaningfully, "do you think someone has been in the vault and taken it?"_

"_I would not be surprised, though the code to the vault is complex." He hummed in thought. "It would be hard to break if one was not a Grey Warden and did not know it already."_

_The Warden raised a slender eyebrow. "I need a code to enter?"_

_He nodded. "You do. There is an enchantment on the door that seals it, unless the correct combination of symbols is drawn upon it."_

_The Warden placed her hand before Riordan. "Show me."_

_Her voice, soft and rich like one of his favorite beers, sent a small tingle of excitement down Riordan's spine. She was a bold one, and nearly caught him off guard with her surprising display of familiarity. Still, he had lived in Orlais long enough to become accustomed to touching strangers, and it was with no fuss that he took her softer, paler hand between his own much darker ones. He turned it so that the palm faced upward and smoothed his thumbs along the edges. He traced the calluses and scars with his eyes before he traced the first symbol into the center of her palm. He let his nail tickle the skin._

"_This is the ancient Tevinter symbol for war," he said softly, eyes focused on the comingling of skin that was white as Highever's sand and his own more swarthy tone._

_The Warden, her eyes watching the movements of his fingers, nodded. She had received a privileged education from the best tutors and Chantry scholars, and they had given her countless lessons on the ancient language of the Imperium. All the best history texts, they had declared, were written by Tevinter scribes, and so she had suffered hours of countless repetition and memorization of the archaic, formal language. Though she had not been an excellent student, she could read basic Imperium, though she was hopeless in speaking it. But there was no need for Riordan to know that. _

"_And this," he continued, the same feather light tracing a combination of nail and callus, "is victory."_

"_In war, victory," supplied the Warden, eyes darting to his face as she regarded him below her long eyelashes. _

_His eyes met hers; crinkling in pleasure that she recognized the code. "Then you should know that what comes next." Instead of drawing the next symbol in the center of her palm, he moved upward. His fingers pushed back the cuff of her long sleeve, revealing her wrist and forearm to him. He steadied her arm against his chest, forcing her to extend it as his hands traced their way to her wrist._

"_Peace," the pad of a finger traced the word just over the thin blue veins that rested blow her skin. His eyes were not looking where he traced, however, they had wandered their way up her arm, over the trapped mounds of her chest, along her thin neck, and up to her eyes. Young, and grey, and dark, those eyes challenged him in all of the wrong ways._

_The next symbol came, much slower than the first. He dragged vigilance along her skin with painstaking care, hoping that it would come to protect her. "Vigilance." He felt the goose bumps form along her skin, and he could not help but run his thumb across them._

"_In peace, vigilance," the Warden echoed. She let out a breathy chuckle, having been drawn close enough to Riordan with each new symbol that she could smell the incense of Jader in his hair._

_He gently tugged the Warden closer now, the entirety of her forearm exposed to him. Her shoulder was touching his, as was her thigh, though they remained a respectable distance apart. She did not stop him, did not pull away, and her eyes only continued to rattle a sword in his direction. His finger skimmed along the pale, blue vein that hid just out of sight before they found their destination. And there, on the crook of her elbow, he placed the last two symbols. "Death…sacrifice," his voice so low he thought she might not have heard him, save for feeling the vibration in his chest._

_The Warden's eyes dropped reverently, breaking their gaze with Riordan's. "In death, sacrifice." Her smile faltered for a few moments, lips losing their upturned points for the somber line Riordan had seen her wearing before._

_Riordan nodded, not saying anything until she lifted her eyes to him once more and their melancholy had passed. "I don't think you looked at a single symbol I traced," he chided with a playful smirk, his fingers still lingering along her skin._

"_Something else caught my attention," she replied with a mirroring smirk._

_Riordan's eyebrows raised in surprise._

"_But," she continued slyly, "I promise that I will remember them. I am an excellent student."_

"_Good," he laughed in his rich Orlesian tones, "because I am a very bad teacher."_

"_Handsome fellow like you?" the Warden shook her head. "I can't see how that would be. You probably have all the other lady Grey Wardens hanging on your every word and following your commands to the letter."_

_The other Warden's head was close enough that Riordan could feel the tickle of her curls against his forehead. "Maybe in my younger days that was true."_

_She winked at him. "Still in your younger days."_

"_Would that that were true, lass," he chuckled ruefully, releasing his hold on the length of her forearm, only to find that its hand had settled itself on the hip nestled between them. Her fingers were drumming against his leather belt. "I am old enough to know I will feel the Call soon. Duncan was not much older than I, and he had written to me that he heard it."_

"_I am beginning to think," the Warden nestled herself close into Riordan's side, resting her head on his shoulder, "that this early death business is a crime."_

"_I am inclined to agree." Riordan wrapped his arm around her, letting his hand linger on the curve of her shoulder, his fingers picking patterns into her thin shirt. "For you, lass, I feel particularly bad. Your introduction into the Grey Wardens is not what it would have been if you were born in Orlais."_

"_But I would not have been a Grey Warden," she responded with a peal of dark, quiet laughter. "I would have just lived my life as I had meant to."_

"_You would be surprised. The compounds in Orlais have many Grey Warden families. It is very different from here. But is true, I suppose," he inhaled deeply, smelling his old home of Highever on her skin, "you would not have been conscripted."_

"_In any other life, I would not be a Grey Warden."_

"_But in any other life," the hand that was not caressing her shoulder came up to her chin, forcing her head back to look at him, "you would not have met me, yes?" He grinned. "And surely that means your life would not have been worth living."_

_The Warden's eyes narrowed, but she was laughing joyfully despite of herself. "My! You don't lack for confidence, do you? Mmm. Would that it had been you who had come to recruit me at Highever. I may not have made such a fuss!" _

"_Duncan was a good man," Riordan said sadly, "he was always proud of his recruits, even if they were not eager. He was very proud of you, in particular. Spoke very highly of you in his letters."_

"_That surprises me," the Warden frowned, "I was… less than polite to Duncan. I did not speak with him much, or get to know him at all. I suppose," she sighed, "I blamed him in some way for Howe's murder of my family, that if I had been allowed to remain, that I alone could have stopped it. Ach," she wiped a hand across her face, "that was a long time ago. I was sure he would have mentioned my poor attitude."_

"_On the contrary," he captured her hand in his, resting it gently on her thigh, "Duncan spoke only of your strength of will and prowess. It is not an easy feat to out-silence Duncan! He may have been a pirate, but he could certainly hold his tongue better than anyone I know."_

"_Pirate?" the Warden raised an eyebrow._

"_Ah, hah," the Riordan shook his head, "I'm sorry, it is a joke that the two of us once shared."_

"_Ah." _ _Licking her lips briefly, the Warden considered the Grey Warden at her side. He was gregarious and charming, if not slightly a rake by the way he touched and consoled her, but there was also a profound sobriety in him. "__Riordan," the Warden took the hand that rested on her thigh between her own, her long fingers interlacing with his, "I have a question about the Grey Wardens." She peered up into his face earnestly; lips pushed forward into a pout of inquiry that no one had yet resisted._

"_I am happy to answer, lass," Riordan replied, squeezing his fingers against hers._

"_I understand only two parts of our creed: In war, victory. We have no," she explained, "other option but to defeat the Blight. In peace, vigilance. Even when there is not a Blight, we must always be wary of the next. I do not understand 'in death, sacrifice.' It does not strike me as related to the Calling, since that is our necessary end. There is no sacrifice. What does it mean?" Morrigan had been the one to pose her the question one night before the Warden had gone to sleep, and it had been on her mind ever since. _

_Riordan knitted his brow together. "It does partly have to do with the Calling, since imbibing Darkspawn blood does shorten our life spans. But you are right; there is more to it than that." He caught the wrinkle that formed between her delicate brows, understanding her confusion. "I see that Duncan did not tell you everything about being a Grey Warden."_

"_No, he didn't. And it is my own fault too, for I never asked." She sighed, but firmly held his gaze. "But I am asking you, as a Senior Warden and," she let herself smile, "as a friend. At least, I hope you consider me a friend?"_

"_I've known you for only a few heartbeats, but I would be honored to consider you my friend," Riordan squeezed her hand again. "I will tell you, for you deserve to know."_

_The Warden nodded eagerly, silently asking him to go on. _

"_A Blight can only be stopped by the Grey Wardens, because it is only a Grey Warden who can kill the Archdemon." He held her gaze solemnly. "When anyone other than a Grey Warden strikes the killing blow, the Archdemon's soul will flee its body and seek out another Darkspawn host. Darkspawn have no souls, and are empty vessels. But if a Grey Warden strikes the blow, the Archdemon's soul will enter the Grey Warden's body. Grey Wardens have souls, and in killing the Old God, theirs is destroyed. The Grey Warden's soul and that of the Archdemon's is killed instantly."_

"_The Grey Warden is destroyed completely and utterly." The Warden nodded grimly. "Even their soul."_

"_In death, sacrifice."_

_The Warden shut her eyes and shook her head. "That explains why every Grey Warden to date who has slain the Archdemon has also died in the process. I thought it was perhaps," she paused for the correct words, "perhaps just their injuries that had overwhelmed them."_

"_It is what Duncan had planned to do, if he had lived passed Ostagar." Riordan hugged her close to his chest, cradling her head just under her chin. His hands slid up and down her back, flirting with the strings of her corset. "He intended to slay the Archdemon himself. It was what any Senior Grey Warden would do."_

"_And is that what you plan to do?" The Warden's fingers curled into the flaps of Riordan's light armor, "do you plan to strike the killing blow?"_

"_I do."_

"_Is that why you came?"_

"_Not initially. Unfortunately, lass," Riordan's voice dropped to a low whisper, "there is little help on the way for Ferelden."_

_The Warden struggled away from his arms, pushing against his chest so that she was chin-to-chin and nose-to-nose with Riordan. "Are you certain?" she whispered back, "Are there no other Grey Wardens coming? How many Grey Wardens are we?"_

"_Other than you, myself, and Alistair? None. The battle at Ostagar wiped out the few Grey Wardens in this area. And before you ask me," he quickly interjected, catching the way her pretty pink lips opened, "Weisshaupt keeps detailed records, lass. There are only three Grey Wardens in Ferelden to fight against the Blight. And others will not come, because Ferelden is a lost cause. It is likely that many of the other nations of Thedas have written Ferelden off, and are assembling their own armies to deal with the Blight once it reaches closer to their homes. I have written to Weisshaupt and Val Royeaux requesting more of us, but I would not dare to hope."_

_Her hot breath puffed against his face. "But why did you come then?"_

"_To discover why there was silence. The king had invited all the Wardens of Orlais to join him, but then nothing. We decided it would be best to send one man alone to see how the Grey Wardens could work to end the Blight within this current regime. And so," he said grimly, "I came. As a native of Ferelden, I volunteered to make the crossing."_

"_You were born in Ferelden?" the Warden quirked a brow, distracted. "Where? You sound very Orlesian."_

"_Highever, actually." He chuckled when he saw the surprise on her features. "Yes, from your Teyrnship. But my father moved when we were very young, shortly after the Orlesian occupation ended. Not that we had anything to do with it, being a family of merchants, but Ferelden became very unwelcome to anyone of foreign blood."_

"_I can imagine." The Warden gave him a knowing smile, "it hasn't changed much. I am sorry that you felt unwelcome in Highever."_

"_It was not your decision, lass, nor was it the intention of your father." He sighed. "I have not returned to Highever for some years; it is a shame what happened to your family."_

"_Word travels fast, doesn't it?"_

"_Duncan's letters are very thorough."_

"_Hah," her small bark of laughter, "back to his letters."_

"_Have you heard from your brother?"_

_Riordan's question sent a ripple of emotion across the Warden's face. Her lips took on a worried pucker, her brow knotted delicately. "No."_

"_Does that make you a Teyrna?"_

"_It might." She flicked her eyes to one of the bookshelves. "A Teyrna with no land. If I can even be a Teyrna. Duncan said I had to leave my past life behind."_

"_That may be the rule, but in practice, there are many exceptions to it. You could be Teyrna, if you wished."_

"_Then why tell me I could not?"_

"_Perhaps to ease you?" Riordan shrugged. "I can imagine the prospect of being a Grey Warden is frightful enough; could you imagine compounding the responsibilities of a Teyrnship on top of that? Knowing Duncan, I believe that is what he was trying to do." _

"_As you can guess," the Warden said dryly, "I was not a very 'at ease' recruit. I was very angry. I think I still am."_

"_You could take your Teyrnship back, when all this is done. It may be best that way, actually. Ferelden is losing many of its land holders, it seems. Highever and Amaranthine to the North, and perhaps soon Gwaren to the south." Riordan gave the Warden a few moments to consider his statement, letting a pregnant pause sit between them._

"_What are you saying?"_

"_Me?" Riordan shook his head. "I am not saying anything. Merely commenting that there are large tracts of land that go undefended, with soldiers that are scattered and leaderless."_

_A nervous chuckle came from the Warden and her fingers idly toyed with one of the studs on his armor. "Are you planning to give up your life as a Grey Warden and go commandeer these men?"_

"_No. If I had the time, and I had the means, I might go recruit them into the Grey Wardens." He placed a hand over hers to still her ministrations, "but I do not."_

_The Warden's eyes narrowed. "What sort of means are we talking of here?"_

"_I need blood, lass. A lot of darkspawn blood."_

"_We don't lack for Darkspawn in these parts."_

"_True enough," Riordan canted his head, looking at her with curiosity. "Might I pose you a question?"_

_The Warden blinked. "Of course."_

_Riordan shifted forward and sat facing the Warden. Her hands he kept in his own and he leaned forward, bringing his elbow to rest on a knee. "If I had the means to do so, would you ask your friends to join us?"_

"_I'm afraid I don't understand." The Warden's face tilted down warily. "Do you mean ask them to become Grey Wardens?"_

_The Senior Warden of Jader nodded._

"_I would ask them, give them the opportunity, but I would not force them." Her smile was wan. "They have their own destinies to follow."_

"_You are as kind as you are lovely, lass," Riordan looked at her with a soft expression, his eyes gentle bordering on pitying, "but there will come a time when you'll need to put aside idealism and embrace pragmatism. There may not be enough Grey Wardens to end this blight and, if I manage to stop the Archdemon, it will fall upon you to rebuild the Grey Wardens. Having trusted allies as your first recruits will ease the process. More so if you plan to claim Highever as your birthright."_

"_I have to rebuild the Grey Wardens?" The Warden's look was one of pain. "How can that be? I am not technically a 'senior' Warden. Alistair outranks me. He was a Grey Warden long before I was. Shouldn't he be the one to rebuild them?"_

"_And yet you have made the decisions while Alistair has followed them." He inhaled deeply and then exhaled with a small laugh, "it is no secret amongst the Grey Wardens that Alistair lacks the necessary qualities for leadership. Both Duncan and Fiona have agreed that he would be a miserable Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. Unfortunately," Riordan's tone turned sour, "not everyone shares that sentiment."_

"_Fiona?" The Warden bobbed her head and squeezed his hands, urging him to continue._

"_I shouldn't tell you this." Riordan dropped his head, staring at the floor between her boots._

"_No," the Warden squeezed his again, "you really should tell me. Please, Riordan." She ducked forward, tilting her head so that she could intercept his eyes. "I am so tired of not knowing what is before me. I have walked blindly on this quest, and I would not walk blindly anymore. There is so much expected of me...and I can't remain ignorant. I will not. Please tell me," she pleaded, "I need to know that at least someone trusts me." She watched the resolve weaken in his features as she spoke, and felt the gush of air against her cheeks as he let out a large sigh. _

"_This is against my better judgment, but," he released her hands, bringing a long finger out to touch her chest, just above where her heart lay, "you will swear to me you will tell no one." He did not see in her the same girl that Duncan had described, the same quiet maid who kept to herself. She was intense in her speech and gaze, but airy and flirtatious in her mannerisms. He guessed she was shrewder than Duncan had let on, and the possibility did strike him that she was indulging his attentions so that she could get more information. Whether she was or not did not matter though; she was a fellow Grey Warden, she was his sister in arms. She deserved answers, because there was indeed much expected of this woman, of this future Warden Commander._

"_I swear it," the Warden replied, meeting his stern, brown eyes with her own intense grey. "With everything I have left."_

_Riordan nodded, finding her oath acceptable. "When I said there were three Grey Wardens in Ferelden to end the Blight," he began slowly, "what I should have said was that there were only two Grey Wardens available to strike the killing blow. You and I."_

"_Not Alistair?"_

"_No." He shook his head, sending strands of dark hair tumbling out of his loose ponytail. "You heard me say that there are some who do not agree with Alistair's capabilities for leadership. You know who he is, yes? You know what he is?"_

"_He is a prince. The son of King Maric." The light of realization shone in the Warden's eyes, "They want him to be king."_

"_The Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt are a cold breed, born of their cold nights and long winters. The First has long been embroiled in the political conflicts of the surrounding nation and it would appear that the Grey Wardens who make their home there prefer it that way." He sagged heavily against the back of the couch, "there is sentiment there that the world must be shown that there is more to the Grey Wardens than merely stopping Blights. That we have other purposes, other means."_

"_They want Alistair to rule Ferelden as a Grey Warden king, don't they?"_

"_It is an experiment that they have been aching to try, but there has never been such a perfect a situation before. They would have Alistair be king and establish a Grey Warden dynasty. He would be King and Commander of the Grey of Ferelden." He saw a flicker of sorrow pass across her face, saw the ripple of tension down her forehead to a slight, involuntary quiver of her lips. "Are you and Alistair close?"_

_The Warden's eyes darted to the door where Alistair was in conference with his two uncles. She was hesitant to respond. "Sometimes I think so, other times I don't."_

"_Have you been intimate?"_

_She slowly dragged her eyes to his face, watching him from the corner of her eye. "You don't think that's a rather inappropriate question to ask?"_

_He shook his head, giving her the briefest of smiles. "Not where this is concerned, no."_

"_No," she put a hand to her mouth to stop the startled hiccup of laughter that came out, "not for lack of trying. Not…fully…intimate, anyway. Touching mostly. Erm…why am I telling you this?"_

"_Grey Warden marriages are often fraught with problems. And Alistair would be advised not to take you to wife, no matter how good your claim might be." He gathered the Warden again to his chest, expecting her to cry at the news like so many other young women in love might. "I am sorry, lass." But she did not cry. Riordan did not feel the tugging on his shirt, the tickle of tears on his neck; hear the sobbing, begging, and cursing of fate. It felt as though he was hugging a statue, and when she spoke to him, it was with the similar serenity by which she had first addressed him._

"_I somehow knew that it would be that way. In my gut, I knew. But can we," she tilted her head back, her chin coming to rest on his shoulder, "please return to this rebuilding the Grey Wardens business?" His stubble scratched along her cheek._

"_We can," Riordan loosened his arms around her, but found that the Warden preferred to stay nestled against him and drink in his warmth. Her breath tickled his ear._

"_You say you must strike the killing blow because you are the oldest of us?"_

"_And I am soon to feel my Calling, and will soon have to depart into the Deep Roads, yes." His fingers slipped through flaxen hair that hung barely constrained down her back._

"_How long do you anticipate until that happens?"_

"_Hard to say. Days? Months? Years?" He let strands of her hair fall to punctuate each measure of time. "When we take our Calling is different for everyone. Grey Wardens the same age who take the Joining at the same time may meet their Calling years apart. It depends on how the body reacts to the taint. Each individual is different."_

"_Then there is no need for you to strike the killing blow."_

_Riordan laughed at that, vigorously scratching at her back at the silly suggestion. "And who would you suggest take it? You?"_

"_Yes, actually." The Warden was smiling from ear to ear as she sat back, forcing Riordan's hands to slide to her waist. She brought her face close to his. "I am the best one to slay the Archdemon."_

"_And why is that?" he raised an eyebrow at her in amusement, seeing the ways her eyes glittered like sea-reflected stars in the torchlight. It was a mad proposition, but her intelligent, sparkling eyes were clear of lunacy. _

"_Consider it: the Grey Wardens need to be reestablished in Ferelden." Her breath puffed hot and ragged with anticipation across his face. "I know very little about the Grey Wardens, have no administrative experience, and wouldn't even know where to begin in terms of recruiting, training, and arming new Wardens. I do not have those means and the knowledge to get them. You, on the other hand, "she tapped her finger playfully to his stubbly, dimpled chin for emphasis, "have these skills and this knowledge. Moreover, your death doesn't empower the Ferelden people. You sound Orlesian, you look Orlesian, and they will only see your sacrifice as Orlais coming forward to solve Ferelden's problems. If I strike the killing blow, I inspire the nation. I become the beautiful, tragic hero, who lost her family and her lands against a tyrant, and sacrificed herself to save the country she loved so much. And you will be there to build the Grey Wardens in my name. Clearly," and she said this with the glimmer of a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, "I am the best choice for the safety and security of Ferelden and her new Grey Wardens."_

"_That is a very colorful picture that you paint, and your ideas do have merit, but I cannot guarantee the success of such a plan. You would have to slay the Archdemon, which requires skills that you may not yet possess. But," he gave her a gracious incline of his head, "we will have to see. Who knows what plans the Maker has for us?"_

"_At least consider it."_

"_It will not be forgotten, lass." He smiled. "But, if you are truly concerned about leading the Grey Wardens, I have a suggestion that you should perhaps consider."_

_She bobbed her head. "I'm listening."_

"_If you are able to, you may be able to conscript your enemy: Loghain Mac Tir." Riordan's hands trailed up and down her waist reassuringly when she gave a blink of surprise at the suggestion, "he is a competent general and leader of men, and has experience ruling a Teyrnship. He would be an excellent second. And in the event that I cannot slay the Archdemon, I have no doubt that he can. Or you can, should the case may be. Three Grey Wardens against an Archdemon is better than two. But," he gave her a meaningful stare, "I leave that up to your discretion. It will be, after all, you who face him tomorrow. Not me."_

_The Warden chewed on her bottom lip in thought, one eyebrow raised at Riordan and his surprising suggestion. "That…is an interesting possibility."_

"_At least consider it," he said, mimicking her earlier delivery and expression, "please?"_

"_It will not be forgotten…lad." The Warden winced. "I do not think I can get away with calling you 'lad.'"_

"_I don't think you can either," he gave her sides a fond stroke, tracing the boning of the corset on his way down. "But always worth it to try. Tell me," he looked to the thick door that separated them from the masters of the estate, "do they often keep you waiting?"_

"_Yes." She followed his gaze to the door, glaring at it. "I had something important to discuss with Arl Eamon and Alistair concerning Anora, but I don't think I'll get the opportunity to. They're always in there, far into the night most days. When I see Alistair in the morning, he looks hunted."_

"_The unfortunate side effect of being a royal bastard. Do you intend to wait outside the door all day and night?" He steadied his hands firmly on the curve of her waist, "and worry yourself?"_

"_I will have to do both," she replied with a strange sort of finality._

"_You could always go, and I could remain here and wait. Come, tell me about Queen Anora." He raised his dark eyebrows in expectation of her compliance._

"_I made Anora think I was going to support her tomorrow."_

"_You are going to double cross her?" Riordan's voice dropped to hide the secret._

_The Warden nodded. "And for the deception, I think she should become Teyrna of Gwaren and receive all of her father's lands."_

"_That sounds fair. Loghain will not have much need of them, though you will need to find some piece of land to establish the Grey Wardens on. You will need a fortress, and those things do not come easily." He grinned, squeezing her, "Or cheaply."_

"_If all else fails, we can use Highever. Or Amaranthine. It would be only fitting, given the late Rendon Howe's treachery and complicity in eradicating the Grey Wardens."_

_The mention of the dead Arl caused Riordan's lip to curl up in disgust, his tongue poking out from between his lips as though he had tasted something foul._

"_My thoughts exactly."_

"_Are you nervous about tomorrow?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in an almost fatherly fashion, though his intent had been to drag his fingertips along her jaw, which he did so with a surprising familiarity. He let the hand fall to his lap, bringing its twin to join it. "When you face the Teyrn?"_

_The Warden shook her head, the lock he had pushed away tumbling back down across her cheek. "No. Not at all."_

"_Excited then?"_

"_I am not that either. I feel numb." She shrugged. "He was a man who my father considered a friend, though we were never well acquainted personally. He feels like the last link to my past."_

"_You will at least face no tricks from Loghain." Riordan's gut feeling had served him well in the past, and something told him what he said was true. "While he may employ others to do his dirtier deeds, he would not stoop so low himself. An excellent warrior will use all the tools at her disposal, but do not expect him to have mercy on you just because you have a pretty face, lass."_

"_Violence was my last resort. And I was going to keep batting my eyes as my last combat resort, should the fight turn ill." admitted the Warden with a sheepish twist of her lips. "But I do not think it will come to that. I may not be a direct sword-for-sword match against Loghain, but I like my chances."_

"_You will have my prayers with you."_

"_Then," she said with a pretty wink, "I most certainly can't lose. You certainly do seem to be a lucky fellow."_

_Riordan laughed at that. "Lucky enough to - "_

_The murmuring of voices and the scratching of wood heralded the opening of Eamon's private study door._

_Alistair walked out first, looking as grim and as hunted as the Warden had described. Next came Teagan in a shade of blue that matched the Warden's corset, and lastly followed Eamon. Teagan could be read like a book, and his honest features were openly displaying his consternation of some issue. Eamon was much harder to understand, keeping most of his thoughts hidden within the grey hairs of his beard._

_The Warden had stood at the first sound of the door opening, and had folded her hands before her as she waited to catch the attention of Alistair and their hosts. Riordan had merely crossed his legs and stretched his arms out on either side of the couch's back._

"_Eamon," the Warden began, catching his arm as he passed, "I've spoken to Anora."_

_The Arl merely gave her a pained expression. "I can't discuss this right now, Aurora. We have to," he gestured to Alistair and gave a belabored sigh, "attend to some business."_

"_Oh." The Warden nodded her head, though her lips pursed themselves into a stern line. She straightened her back, coming to stand at her full height. She stood a few inches taller than the Arl, a fact that he often forgot when she stood with her hip cocked out and her feet wide. "Well, you may think on this as you leave: I have convinced the Lady of what she wants to believe. In return for the deception, she should have Gwaren."_

_Eamon frowned, but merely nodded his head. "That's a fair compromise. We'll make sure it happens." He gently pulled his arm free from the Warden's grasp. "Thank you."_

_The Warden merely inclined her head, allowing Eamon to step past her and follow Teagan and Alistair to their intended destination. She heard the creak of wood as Riordan stood, and felt the older Warden place a gentle hand on the small of her back._

"_Come," he said softly, "I will take you to our vault in the Denerim market. There may be something useful that will aid you tomorrow."_

"_Heh," the Warden ducked her head, "I think the only thing that's going to aid me tomorrow is a stiff drink."_

"_Liquid courage then, is it?" A smirk spread across Riordan's features, "I know of a good tavern not too far from the vault. Some fresh air and entertainment may do you some good and help you remember what you are fighting for."_

"_I think you are a bad Senior Warden, Riordan." The Warden looked at him from over her shoulder. "With all your tempting ideas."_

"_As I said earlier, being a Grey Warden does not mean you must resign yourself to a life without camaraderie and joy. Come," he beckoned her with a toss of his head to the door, "I shall show you the way."_

_And against her better judgment, but with a rather large smile of liberation across her features, she followed him._

_

* * *

_

_A "talky" interlude, but the sister piece to this interlude has much more action. It has to, since it contains the second confrontation between the Warden and Cauthrien, and the Landsmeet Battle Royale._

_I (gleefully) borrowed Shakespira's version of Riordan. I highly recommend 'The Lion of Orlais,' and 'The Heart of the Lion.' I also recommend 'Of Peacocks and Pirates,' but that little story is just sinful._

_Speaking of which, this chapter continues in _Inevitable Grey. _The author's note at the very end of the story touches more on my thoughts about it._

_Fanmix is up-to-date, and there's more fantabulous art. Lady Winde, my beautiful and talented beta, and her hands have brought Riordan and Lady Grey to life as he traces the code of the Denerim vault into her palm. Links to her drawings are in my profile!_


	25. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

After a few hours of uneasy rest that was often disturbed by the shuffling and bumbling of anxious villagers, Dane and the Wardens collected the horses from the Chantry, and, at dawn's first light, ate a meager breakfast and made their way back the way they had come. The villagers followed behind them, a pale and sweating mayor leading the way.

At the main road, the Wardens turned their horses right towards the Frostbacks, while the villagers turned left to West Hill. With their possessions being carted behind them in old wagons and what remained of their livestock being pulled along the road, they disappeared down the trade route in a wailing, dusty cloud.

Gharin, Loghain's destrier, strode proudly down the road while Brake, the Warden's broad-backed palfrey, ambled along just behind him. The Warden had an easy time riding her horse, since he rode with a sure gait that rarely faltered or staggered. Loghain often dismounted from Gharin, finding his destrier's pace to be painful after long stretches of riding. Usually, the Warden dismounted when Loghain did, being polite, and walking beside him. However, they were not more than an hour down the path when Loghain stopped and dismounted from Gharin with a pained expression. Taking the reins, he led his dark warhorse along the road, lagging behind the Warden.

"Why did you not leave Gharin behind in Amaranthine?" asked the Warden, slowing Brake's pace down so that he matched Loghain's much smaller steps.

He shrugged, hand reaching up over his shoulder to gently scratch his horse's cheek. "Gharin and I are the same breed of creature." Loghain had broken the horse himself, and had grown rather attached to the impressive black beast during the process. Moreover, he would be utterly damned if he rode into Orlais on anything other than a fine, Fereldan steed.

"So," the Warden said slyly in a voice that made the hairs on the back of Loghain's neck stand up, "you consider yourself a barrel-chested stallion that enjoys being ridden?"

"I dare say," Loghain replied, "I take pleasure from being mounted, yes."

At that, the Warden's pretty pink mouth opened and closed, struggling for an answer.

Loghain smirked at her expression. He had been ready for her this time. "And doing the mounting," he pressed, unable to help himself after seeing the ways her eyes had widened. He had called her bluff, upped the stakes when she was not prepared to bid any higher, and it had felt good.

It also felt good to know that things were, for the most part, back to normal. Loghain had feared that what had transpired in the Tevinter shrine would ruin the casual and easy friendship they had formed. From the way the Warden had acted immediately after their escape, he had almost believed that they were on worse footing than when she had first inducted him into the Grey Wardens. But as the hours had passed and dawn had come, her erratic behavior and wary looks at him had faded away. Now she was once more chatting – flirting – with him, and it felt like the ocean that had formed between them had evaporated.

"You look like a fish," he commented idly, watching the drag and pull of her lips from the corner of his eye. He grinned when he saw her mouth shut, teeth _snicking _against one another in the process. She pushed Brake to a quicker pace with a nudge of her heels, leaving Loghain behind to laugh in the dust her palfrey kicked up. He filed this information away for later: that while the Warden could give out a teasing, she most certainly could _not _take one.

Dane, unable to truly comprehend his mistress's moods, barked after her, calling her back, before he sprinted on ahead of Loghain to catch up with her.

Truthfully, the Warden did not ride so far ahead as to disappear from Loghain's sight. The road was far too straight and clear for such a thing to occur, and it was also not her intention to travel on her own. Still, she needed to put some distance between herself and Loghain. While she was still feeling the violation of the blood mages, she knew it was important to put it behind her in order to move forward. Yet, she was having trouble doing so.

Every time she looked at Loghain, she was reminded of his strong fingers on her jaw, his arms around her waist, his chapped lips on hers… it was unsettling. For all of the knowledge that she had not been control of herself, she had _liked _it. She had _liked _being in his arms, being kissed by him. She was just unsure whether it was because she was truly attracted to Loghain, or if it was because she just genuinely liked feeling loved.

Love. There was the word in and of itself. When she had been trapped in the Fade, the demon had made it seem like she and Loghain had been _in _love. They had conceived a child from that love, married and made a life of it. And then, when she had been possessed, she had touched Loghain as an intimate lover and memories of what she had felt for him, for their son, had come forward. Were those feelings fabricated, or had they always been there? Were they real, or were they fake?

He had certainly been a man that she had always admired, though not someone she had frequently interacted with. She'd had plenty of opportunities to visit Gwaren and Denerim with her mother to see Anora and consequently her father. She'd been to plenty of Landsmeets where the Teyrn had also attended. Yet, she'd never sought him out directly. She'd never even mooned after him from afar. There had always been other people, other things, that she'd been more interested in.

But there was no reason to trouble Loghain with any of this. It was embarrassing to admit her quandary to him, and entirely inappropriate of her to do so. She was his commander; she had to be unequivocally impartial and precise of feeling. Moreover, Loghain was unflappably cool as ever. He did not appear troubled by what had transpired. Why should she?

It would be safest (and less awkward) if she kept her thoughts to herself.

With her internal debate raging, the Warden rode into the scattered wreckage of a ruined caravan. She had hardly noticed the details at first because they were so small. There were small bits of ripped cloth and broken wood that were easy to ignore given how frequently this road was travelled. But when she came across the yoke that would have held a train of horses together, the Warden could not help but stop and examine the damage.

At this point, the road was on the lip of a steep, grassy highland. Shoulder-high weeds that obscured the drop and the rest of the countryside fenced in the road's edges. Following the trail of chipped wood through the weeds revealed the ruined shell of a carriage in the lowlands. It was not far away, just a cautious trek down the hill towards the carriage's carcass. Chests and trunks lay scattered around, some crushed by the fall, others pried open. Clothes and other various items lay strewn on the grass.

"Bandits," whispered the Warden.

Brake whickered, not in understanding of what she said, but in how close she had driven him to the edge of the drop. But for all her curiosity, guts, and bravado, the Warden would not dare to ride her horse down the side of the ravine to reach the bottom. She would ride further along the road until it lay flat against the landscape once more.

As she considered whether to ride the extra few miles or wait for Loghain, Dane managed to catch up to her. He padded to her side. He had picked up a small plank of wood in his mouth along the way, and sidling next to the Warden, gave her foot a nudge with his head. His stumpy tail wagged.

"Ser Dane, bandits have been in this area, and you wish to play games?"

The Mabari bumped her foot again, whining as best he could with a full mouth.

"No," the Warden scolded, "drop the stick."

Dane did not drop the stick, bumping her foot with it.

The Warden sighed. "Dane, I do not wish to play games. I am thinking very hard about bandits right now."

Dane didn't seem to agree, bumping her again.

With a stretch downward and an opening of her hand (plus a sigh of resignation), she accepted the slightly moist 'stick' that Dane had found. She tossed it over her shoulder, sending it clattering into the underbrush on the other side of the road.

Dane chased it after it, legs skittering wildly in excitement as he bounded across the tightly packed sand and dirt of the road. His powerful legs kicked up pebbles that pelted the Warden's horse and caused Brake's tail to swish rapidly back and forth.

A few moments later, the Warden, whose eyes were still fixed on the wreckage below, felt Dane bumping her foot once more. She repeated her earlier motion of accepting the stick and tossing it over her shoulder, the excited war dog flying after it. They continued on this way until Loghain caught up to them, riding on Gharin and wincing with each of the mighty destrier's steps.

"Something drove this caravan off the road," said the Warden as she heard the clip of Gharin's hooves, "I think it might have been bandits. We should go investigate." She turned her head to Loghain, noticing how he looked at her with reproach in his eyes. They were saying, 'no,' to her. She scowled. "Why don't you think we should?"

"I seem to recall stumbling into an ancient Tevinter prison the last time you wanted to stop to help someone," Loghain replied blandly. "You suspect these might be bandits, but you're trouble, girl. I half expect them to be more than just an ordinary set of bandits. That's just too _easy _for you."

"What, you think that they'll be magical bandits? Blood mage bandits?"

"Worse," Loghain brought Gharin beside Brake, looking down to examine the ruins.

"Orlesian blood mage bandits, then, that breathe fire and shoot ice beams from their eyes?" The Warden couldn't help but chuckle, "Come, Loghain. Surely, it won't be anything more than just some cutpurses mixed in with a couple of apostates. Besides, they could very well be Orlesian bandits, and by the looks of that wreckage, they may have taken Fereldans hostage." She stared at his profile meaningfully, "Would you abandon your countrymen to such a cruel fate?"

Loghain's frown deepened. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"At the very least, let's go investigate the damage. There is plenty of daylight left to us."

"And yet, we are also a day behind."

The Warden shrugged. "We will arrive in Val Royeaux when it pleases us."

Loghain's eyes narrowed and they glared at her. "What a very Orlesian attitude you're developing."

"What is your issue, Loghain?" She canted her head at him. The Warden frowned at him, though not in such a way as to mirror his glare. She spoke to him in chillingly neutral tones, the soft slant of her words belying her frustration. "You have taken offense at every suggestion to stop and help our countrymen that I've made. Are you so excited to march into Orlais? Is there some pressing matter that you'd like to discuss with me, so that I can accommodate your desires and keep our journey swift and pleasant?"

Loghain kept his silence, biting his tongue as he pursed his lips at her. Truly, there was but one reason why he was so eager to arrive in Orlais, and that was to settle the matter of Cailan's infidelity. The matter had weighed heavily on his mind since he'd first discovered the chest of letters in Ostagar, and every night he had turned Empress Celene's correspondence around in his fingers. The edges of her missives were now well worn and dirt-stained, as he had fingered their delicate white paper more times than he had a lover.

It was not information she needed to know. And so Loghain said nothing. He merely clenched his jaw and held her stern, grey gaze.

"Nothing?" she asked. "Nothing to say?" She waited for him to answer, allowed him a few moments of time in order to craft his response. But his face was impassive, his posture unyielding, and the Warden knew that he would continue to protest her decisions, even if he did always follow her orders. "We're going to keep traveling on this road until we can pick a safe way down. Then we're going to come back and investigate the wreckage."

Loghain did not argue it with her, though he thought his jaw might break at the force at which he held it shut. He followed the Warden down the road, Gharin trailing behind Brake while Dane made up the distance between them. He kept his eyes firmly fixed in front of him on the horizon. Vaguely he could make out the sway of the Warden's back and shoulders as her body moved with Brake's easy steps, how the wind coming down from the Frostbacks was cold, frosty, and ruffled the strands of hair that hung loose from her long braid. He mused that she was a sure and confident rider, with a bravery born of never having been thrown head first from a frightened steed.

The Warden led them along the road, every so often directing Gharin to the road's edge so that she could look down over the high weeds and observe the landscape. They did not have to travel far, perhaps five or so miles, before the slope of the land was easy enough for the horses to be led down without fear for their safety. The Wardens dismounted without a word to one another, setting themselves to the task of walking through the thick weeds down the hill towards the grassland just beyond. Once on the flat ground, the Warden remounted.

Loghain was hesitant to clamber back on Gharin, eying the broad back of his beast with an expression akin to long-endured suffering.

It was not lost on the Warden. Dismissing their earlier exchange and pegging it to Loghain's harrowing experience in the Tevinter ruin, she nudged Brake into action. "Ride on Brake," she said, bringing the palfrey to Loghain's side. "I will lead Gharin."

He shook his head. "Don't be daft. I'm not going to ride your horse while you lead mine."

"Why not? Is it," she stretched out her boot and tapped Loghain's shoulder, "a matter of pride?"

"My pride, not yours," he replied sourly. He tugged Gharin through the grass.

"We could both ride on Brake then," the Warden suggested. "Neither of us has to walk."

"I'm happy walking."

"I'm unhappy watching you walk."

"Of all the things you could concern yourself with," Loghain's pace quickened.

"It will be faster." A gentle nudge to the horse's flank brought Brake abreast of Loghain. "You walk slower than Brake would if he were to carry both of us. And you did," she said with a pointed expression, "seem to want to get this over with quickly."

Loghain couldn't fault her for her logic.

"But if it gives you pause to ride behind me," the Warden continued, "I can ride Gharin while you ride Brake."

"That wouldn't work. Gharin does not permit anyone to ride him, save myself. We have," Loghain said with a bump of his shoulder into the horse's neck, "an understanding."

"He must not be very well broken if he is fussy with other riders. But," she shrugged, "I do not mind giving him a try."

"You speak as one who has never been unseated, Madam," said Loghain with a reference to his earlier musings.

"No one has yet dared to try. I have quite a grip."

Loghain's eyebrow rose at her words. The thought crossed his mind that he could say something dreadfully wicked to again call her bluff, to send her riding ahead with her cheeks aflame and her eyes wide, but that was counter-intuitive to what needed to be done: which was sate her curiosity as quickly as possible and get back on the road. Thoughts of the Orlesian Empress were surprisingly sobering. "We'll not risk it." With a touch to Gharin's nose and a hand to Brake's flank, Loghain stilled both horses. Gharin's reins were fed easily into one of the spare notches in Brake's saddle.

The Warden pulled herself as far forward as she could on Brake's saddle, which was quite far given that her saddle was crafted for a heavier man in much bulkier armor than she. She freed her foot from the stirrup closest to Loghain, allowing him to use it as he heaved himself onto the back of her horse. He slipped into the saddle behind her, filling out the remaining space. His leg plates rested around her hips, while his arms looped around her waist to grasp the saddle horn.

Were either of them more modest individuals (and the Warden was still fairly modest), they might have objected at others looking upon them in such an intimate state. Though created out of necessity, both were acutely aware of the other's body and its relative proximity to other, more intimate bits. Though they were separated by their armor, they were not protected from the regular clattering and mashing of their bodies against one another as the palfrey picked its way along the countryside. Loghain's breath tickled the Warden's cheek, the Warden's hair caught in Loghain's mouth, his hips moved forward while hers were forced to move backward. Together they were a mismatched pair: fair and dark, even and odd, young and old.

They passed this way in their companionable silence, both sets of eyes fixed on the bulk that was the carriage's body as it came closer into view. From a distance, it appeared as a rock, a dark and interminable blot on the horizon. As they drew nearer, the spokes of the wheels, the elongated carriage body and the remaining horse yokes were easily visible.

The carriage was toppled onto its side, its wheels spinning in the breeze. The trunks the Warden had seen from her roadside perch were in better condition than she had originally assumed. While the locks appeared to have been jimmied or bludgeoned open, the shells of the chests were in good working order, and were lovely with their dark, inlaid wood. Much of what had once been stored in the trunks had either been removed or tossed onto the grass. The wind had blown the lighter belongings around the area, namely those slips of papers and pieces of clothing that were of no great value.

Loghain dismounted first, his hands coming up to catch the Warden's waist as she dismounted after him. The Warden tied Brake's reins loosely to one of the exposed carriage axels, and both horses set themselves to grazing on the lush grass at their hooves. Meanwhile, the Wardens and Dane explored the site.

The Warden bent in front of one of the chests, pulling the lid of it down to see if she could identify to whom it belonged. Ever since she could remember, the Warden had always had the Cousland family crest emblazoned on all of the drawers and chests that had held her belongings. The white wings of the Cousland laurel were either carved meticulously into whatever dark wood her trunks had been made of, burnt into the lighter wood trunks, or fashioned into the gold and silver locks at their fronts. She assumed that now that she was a Grey Warden, she would have to start having the gryphon emblazoned on all of her chests and locks, or at least modify the symbol of her house to have the gryphon in the foreground, the wreath just behind it.

Regardless, while she didn't know if such a practice was typical of all wealthy or noble families, she did hope to find some clue as to whom this carriage had belonged to.

An apple split in half by an arrow was carved into the wood. The Warden recognized the crest as belonging to the Hurns, a minor noble family who had sworn allegiance to the nearby West Hill bannorn. Lord Alfred Hurn had three daughters and no sons, which he had often lamented to her father about. The Warden had found his daughters a nice enough group of girls, though as they were older and more engrossed with the idea of marriage, they had not spent as much time together. The youngest daughter, Cardia, had lusted over Fergus (much to Oriana's displeasure) until she'd been introduced to her betrothed, who was the son of another petty noble in the Denerim arling.

"These trunks belonged to the Hurn family," the Warden called to Loghain.

"I know," he replied, the papers he held in his hand rustling in the breeze. "These letters belong to Cardia."

"What do they say?"

"I'm not sure; I'm having a hard time deciphering her script. I assume this is the handwriting of Cardia Hurn?" He moved to the Warden's side, lowering the parchment so that she could look at it. "The ones with little hearts over the i's."

"Ohhhhh," the Warden winced, remembering that handwriting, "yes. That would be her handwriting. I see she hasn't changed much in three years."

"What an utterly inane thing to do." Loghain tossed the letter down in disgust.

"I always turn my t's into flowers," teased the Warden, "and my o's into eyes."

"And I repeat: what an utterly inane thing to do. Is that what Fereldan education is turning into these days? Studies of how to waste time writing letters?"

"I am joking," the Warden said with a small laugh, standing. "Truly, I could care less about legibility. The less that strangers can read my letters, the better."

Loghain ignored her placatory comment, busying himself with stalking about the carriage to see if he could determine how and why it had run off the road. He could see the faint scoring of a small fire along one of the wheels, and also on the axel that was missing a wheel. The bottom of the carriage also showed some fire damage. "I think they drove over an explosive trap of sorts. It damaged the axels, frightened the horses, and sent them all over the edge of the road."

"I can't see any footprints because of this grass," the Warden traced Loghain's steps, walking around the carriage with her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "Dane," she called.

The Mabari, who had been happily eating the cheery yellow flowers that grew in this part of Ferelden, stopped what he was doing and sauntered over to his mistress's side.

"You remember Lady Cardia Hurn, the mean woman who called you ugly and kept following around mean Fergus?"

Dane barked. Yes, he remembered her.

"Was she here?" the Warden asked, "can you smell her?"

Dane sniffed around her feet before jumping into the carriage. He barked in the affirmative.

"So," Loghain put his finger to his chin, "a noble lady's carriage gets robbed on the trade road. Does her retinue make their way to the nearest town, or are they captured by bandits?"

Dane dropped out of the carriage, nose to the ground. His stumpy tail wiggled as his keen nose moved away from the wreckage, away from the road, and into the distant tree line. He turned over his shoulder and barked at both Wardens.

"She's out there in the woods somewhere," the Warden frowned, "perhaps alone, perhaps captured."

"You understand," said Loghain, placing a hand on the small of her back, "that you may not like what you find in the woods."

"I don't like a lot of what I find in the world, Loghain," she responded with a straightening of her back, "but that does not stop me from doing what I have to do."

"Fair enough." He gestured to where Dane barked and bounced. "Lead the way."

And lead she did. Following Dane's clever nose, the Wardens and their horses passed through the grassland and into the trees. The forest here was not thick, though it required the Wardens and their horses to walk single file. It being midmorning, the sun light had not yet filtered into the deepest parts of the forest. As Dane led them deeper in, the shade and shadows between the trees grew. The breeze through the leaves was chilly, nipping at their noses and exposed ears.

Loghain's well-trained eyes spotted the snapped twigs and disturbed underbrush as they passed. He also caught the scent of horse manure, and it was likely that the bandits that had taken the Hurn escort's horses had come this way. It was likely that the attack had occurred only a few days before, if that. It could have happened yesterday and neither Warden would have known, having been trapped in the wicked wiles of Tevinter blood mages.

Dane brought them only a few miles more into the forest before he stopped. His ears flattened against the back of his head and his teeth bared, he growled into the gloom.

"Dane," the Warden said quietly, laying a gauntlet on the Mabari's head, "watch the horses. Loghain and I will investigate." Saying this, the Warden tethered Brake and Gharin to a low tree branch, leaving them hidden by the massive trunk of a gnarled and ancient tree.

Dane barked his affirmation of the order, nudging the horses' legs with his head so that they remained firmly out of sight.

Step by quiet step, the Wardens pressed forward into the woods. They found the source of Dane's agitation just ahead. A small, woodsman's cottage lay within a thick copse of trees, tucked by the side of a small stream. In front of the icy covered cottage were six horses that whickered and whinnied against a generously filled trough. It was obvious where the bandits were hiding out.

No smoke was rising from the stone chimney that did not even poke out of the treetops, but there was light filtering out of the cottage's windows, as well as jeering laughter. It was raucous, masculine, and punctuated by a high-pitched scream.

The Warden narrowed her eyes and unsheathed her sword. She had unhooked her shield from Brake's saddle before she'd left him behind, and this she slipped onto her arm. "No diplomacy."

Loghain said nothing as he similarly armed himself. When it was not possible for a man to earn an honest living, then Loghain understood the need for banditry. But when it _was _possible for a good living to be earned, as had been the case prior to and shortly after the Orlesian occupation, he considered banditry to be one of the worst sorts of crimes.

With her face grim, the Warden mounted the two stone stairs that were the foundation of the cottage. And, of all the audacious things Loghain had seen her do, he could not believe he was watching her _knock._ With that expression and the wicked glint to her eyes, and her order of no diplomacy, he had expected her to just bash down the door. Instead, there she was knocking it, waiting patiently with her sword tucked just behind her back and her shield held out in front of her.

The laughing and jeering in the cottage stopped at her knocking.

"Hello?" said the Warden, her mellow voice pitched high and panicked, "is there anyone here? Please, I'm lost, tired, and hungry!"

Loghain rolled his eyes, perching himself against the cottage wall, just out of view of the window and within reach of the door.

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing, sweetheart," came a voice just beyond the door. "Old Gavin here'll take care of ya." There was the sound of something heavy slamming shut from deep within the cottage.

"Oh, thank you," the Warden twittered back. "Thank you ever so much."

The slide of wood against wood came from the opposite side as the bandits pulled back the bar that kept the door firmly locked. Had the Warden tried to kick it in, she likely would have broken her foot. She sent a smirk in Loghain's direction.

The door opened, revealing the shabby interior of woodsman's cottage and a very surprised looking 'Gavin.'

"You don't look so 'elpless," he said in shock at the fully armed, one-eyed woman who stood before him.

"Because I'm not." The Warden's shield cracked into his chest, sending Gavin falling against the far wall, tripping over a turned over piece of furniture in the process. Her shield came up to catch the bolts that flew in her direction. She stepped into the cottage. Loghain was right behind her, pressing in to the room to catch the seven or so bandits that were firing their crossbows at them.

Four of the seven switched to their swords when they saw that the Wardens were in fact fully armored and able to withstand their ranged assault. The bandits being only lightly armored were still wary to approach, despite the necessity. When Loghain's sword split Gavin's head in two after their leader had tried to stab him in the back, one of the bandits attempted to jump through the nearest open window in fear. The Warden's sword cut down the back of his legs, and he fell to the ground outside bleeding and hamstringed, capable of only crawling into the trees to bleed out and die to become food for the wolves and bears.

The bandits were outmatched and outclassed, though none of them threw down their arms to surrender. Instead, those that were too afraid to fight tried to slip by the Wardens in the chaos, relying on their distraction as they cut down their fellows. This failed, since each man that tried to escape found himself bloodily (and bodily) pinned to the walls by the Wardens' sharp blades. And those that weren't too afraid kept fighting, somehow believing deep in their hearts that they could, in fact, slay these two armored giants who had disturbed their revelry.

But when at last the bandits lay dead and the first floor of the woodsman's cottage lay empty, the Wardens set about the task of trying to find the missing travelers. They found all the precious items of value from the Hurn caravan tucked away safely in sacks and crates, but did not find any sign of the Hurns.

The Warden found the door to the cellar beneath a hastily placed sheepskin rug. Loghain found a ring of keys on the bandit Gavin's belt. Combined, the Wardens opened the door to the cellar and, taking one of the candles that burned merrily atop the fireplace's mantle, descended down into the darkness.

In the gloom of the small light, they could make out six shapes huddled against the far wall.

"Hurn? Cardia Hurn?" asked the Warden to the darkness, waiting for one of the figures to respond.

"That's me," came the shaky voice of one of the women. "I'm Cardia."

Closer inspection revealed the bandits' captives were tied to a series of wine kegs that lined the wall, their feet bound, and their eyes blindfolded. Each of their hands was bound behind the kegs; the thick rope that secured each was tied in a clever knot that could only be undone by someone who was standing.

The Wardens approached, Loghain plucking the blindfolds off the captives while the Warden examined their faces. She recognized Cardia by the woman's strawberry blonde hair and apple-colored cheeks, though they were gaunt and sunken with worry. The others she did not recognized, but guessed that they were probably house guards and handmaidens. The Warden nodded to Loghain, giving him the signal to release their bonds.

"Thank goodness you've come," said Cardia, rubbing her wrists once she was free of the ropes. "We've been down here for days! They've tortured us!" She, like the rest of the group, was covered in dirt and bruises. A wicked looking cut trailed across her forehead, and she sported an ugly black eye.

"Identify your retinue," ordered Loghain, tapping the Warden on her shoulder to let her know that he was going to scout the rest of the small cellar's nooks and crannies.

"I am Cardia Hurn." She touched a hand to her chest. "My ladies are Maybeth, Rosa, and Hildred. My two guards are Xayne and Darrick. They took one of my other ladies away. I didn't see what happened to her, being blindfolded and all. Did you see Maranta?"

Maybeth and Rosa looked to be in fairly good health, bearing only a few scuffs on their faces. Hildred appeared to be quite old, much older than the others, at least, and the wrinkles in her face did little to hide the caked blood on her features. Her nose appeared broken, and her upper lip was swelling rather painfully. The two men seemed healthy.

Frowning, the Warden looked between the small noble party. "How did they capture you? What purpose did you have being so far west of West Hill?"

"I was," explained Cardia, "on my way back from Orlais, visiting a dear friend of mine."

"And they ambushed us," supplied Darrick, who was long in the tooth and of wide, paranoid eyes, "with some sort of explosive trap. Knocked Xayne and I cold, the fall did. Woke up here blindfolded and beaten."

From an alcove just behind the stairs, Loghain gave a small sound of surprise, and then a groan. "Bastards."

"What is it?" Cardia picked up her soiled and dusty skirts in her hand, trotting over to where Loghain was kneeling. Hildred was close behind her.

"Oh!" Cardia squealed. "Maranta, I am so sorry!"

A quick glance over her shoulder revealed all she needed to know. Cradled in Cardia's lap was a slim elf, stripped nude and panting, her hands clutched at either side of her face. Loghain had moved away to give the women some space, coming to stand beside the Warden and away from the sudden onslaught of womanly wailing and crying that was about to break.

"Maranta, I am so sorry!" Cardia repeated again, clutching the smaller woman to her bosom. The elf sobbed into her chest, revealing back and buttocks that had been clawed red by fingernails and teeth marks.

The Warden saw red, her hands tightening into fists, but her expression remained stony, if not slightly wide-eyed. Beside her, Loghain stood impassive, but he felt the same rage as she did, though it was tempered by the knowledge that justice had been served to the perpetrators of the crime.

Cardia stroked her hands through the elf's hair, mindful of how her handmaiden flinched and whimpered as she came close to her temples. Cardia carefully pulled the hands away, noticing how blood trickled between Maranta's fingertips. She screamed. "Oh, if I had known! If I had known!"

Maranta's ears were gone. Her delicate ears, with their gentle points, had been cut clean from her head. In their place were two slits that ran red and bleeding down her neck.

Rosa fainted, falling atop Maybeth who fell with her to the floor. Maybeth fanned Rosa's face, trying to coax her friend awake once more.

"It's my fault!" Hildred blurted out.

"What do you mean it's your fault?" Cardia turned to look at the woman in her employ. "You aren't responsible for those animals!"

"They…they wanted to ransom us," Hildred's hands twisted frantically before her, "when they beat me, they asked me who to ask for money. Your father doesn't have much, but your betrothed does." Her lips curled back into a grimace. "I had to tell them or they'd kill me! I swear I thought they'd do me in!"

"I don't understand!" cried Cardia, her hands coming to her forehead in confusion and fright. "Why wouldn't they come for me instead?"

"Because the only reason he's marrying you is for Maranta!" Hildred buried her face in her hands. "Maranta and the Lord, they've been having an affair. He only consented to the marriage so that he could be close to her."

Cardia's expression turned from one of pain and shock, to pain and anger. She bawled her hands into fists and pounded her forehead, shrieking all the while. "How could you do this to me, Maranta! How could you!" She roughly shoved the elf off her lap, driving one of her fists into the girl's stomach for good measure. "You filthy knife-eared slut! He was my Edrick! He was mine! And you took him from me!" She slapped the whimpering elf across the face. "Dirty slut! No good whore! You deserved what you got!" She raised her hand again, but this time Hildred caught her, pulling her away from Maranta and to her feet.

"Stop, my lady, stop! This is not becoming of someone your station!" Hildred placated, tugging her back towards Maybeth and Rosa.

"She's a dirty knife-ear and she DESERVED it! I bet she LOVED it." Cardia managed to get a shallow kick into Maranta's ribs before being pulled bodily away. Cardia Hurn was a small woman, but was apparently possessed of tremendous strength. The tears that flowed down her eyes were of rage, not despair, as she turned to look at the two Grey Wardens.

Both the Warden and Loghain had watched the scene in stony silence, the former hiding her shock and the second struggling to comprehend what he had just seen. Loghain had never understood man's fetish for elves, having seen firsthand how disastrous such courtships were. And the Warden, while she had heard of nobles carrying on affairs with servants, had never actually seen such a thing occur before. She was surprised that Cardia was more concerned about her betrothal than someone she had seemed to regard as a friend.

"I thank you two strangers for your assistance, but we need to leave this place." Cardia struggled to wipe away her tears with her sleeves. "I don't care if my possessions are gone, I don't want them. I will buy new ones. I just want to go home."

"Just take us to the trade road," Xayne said, wetting his lips nervously, "and we'll get the ladies back home."

Loghain nodded, finding his voice first. "We'll take you to the road."

"What about her?" The Warden gestured to the elf, her small frame laying still and small against the hard-packed earth. "Surely you will take her with you?"

"That dirty back-stabbing knife ear can die for all I care," Cardia said viciously, spitting in Maranta's direction, "leave her here."

"No. She'll die if she stays here," the Warden pointed her finger at Lord Hurn's daughter, "you will take her with you as far as the nearest city, and then you will pay her good money for her services, find her an inn, and be on your way."

Cardia launched a gob of spit at the Warden's feet, "and who are you to order me around?" Her maidens cowered and winced behind her; unsure who this woman was that looked like their mistress, spoke like their mistress, and yet was not acting like their mistress.

"I'm Aurora Cousland," the Warden said, her voice cool and even, "and my brother is Teyrn Fergus Cousland. Behind me is Loghain Mac Tir, his daughter is Teyrna Anora Mac Tir. Make no mistake; I can make things _very _difficult for you, Lord Edrick, and your family if you do not do as I ask."

"And trust me," added Loghain dryly, "she'll know if you don't."

Cardia's expression soured, her eyes narrow at the Grey Warden who outranked her. She wanted to protest, but there was no mistaking their faces. She waited so long to speak that the Grey Wardens expected her to protest, but instead she merely gave out a great, gusty sigh. "You always were a bit…mannish, Aurora." Her taunt failed to provoke a reaction from the younger Warden, and unwilling to waste any further time in the cellar and the woods, she set about the task of ordering her servants into action. "Xayne, carry the slut to the horses. Maybeth, find her a dress. If you can't, give her your shift."

None of the servants questioned their mistress's orders.

The two Wardens returned to the main floor of the cottage. The Warden rubbed her face with her hands; Loghain merely stood observing the carnage in the room. Men hung out of the windows, over furniture, and lay sprawled across the floor. Blood splattered the walls and pooled around the bodies. It was a gristly sight and would make the squeamish noble ladies cringe and cry if they didn't faint all over each other first.

At the sound of footsteps approaching from the cellar, the Warden let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. "Loghain," she said to her second, turning to him and placing a weary hand on his shoulder, "we're taking the boat to Val Royeaux."

This time, Loghain could not fault her decision.

* * *

_Nasty pieces of work, those Fereldan noblemen and women...but we knew that already. _

_And look, Piceron, dirty horse riding talk! Dirty horse riding talk!_

_To everyone who has been following the story, thank you ever so much for reading. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Much love to my muse Lady Winde too. Without you I would be a dreadfully boring soul. _

_As I had mused about in the previous chapter, I did expand upon Interlude VI (and the Interlude's A/N now reflects it, though who rereads non-Loghain/Warden chapters!). __The rather lusty expansion is called 'Inevitable Grey,' and it is floating around the site somewhere. _


	26. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

They escorted Cardia Hurn and her retinue to the road as they had promised, and it was there that they bid them farewell. The Warden echoed her warning to Cardia, that she would make life very difficult for the petty noble if she did not give Maranta the care she needed. Though the Lady Hurn had heard the message, she did not acknowledge the Warden's words. Instead, she kicked her horse up into a canter, jostling the poor elf who lay bundled in her lap.

"When I get back to Amaranthine," the Warden muttered under her breath, turning her horse and riding back to where Loghain and Dane were waiting.

Noticing the deep scowl she wore, Loghain let himself smirk. "She seemed pleased to be rid of us."

The Warden grunted her agreement. "I don't know who disgusts me more: the bandits, or the nobles."

Loghain shrugged, bringing Gharin to walk abreast of Brake. His knee touched hers. "Neither are honest men."

"Vindication for disgust, excellent." A sudden growling of her stomach interrupted the Warden's thoughts and she placed a hand to her belly. "It must be time for lunch. Slaying bandits and saving ladies truly makes one hungry."

"We're not stopping until nightfall. If we make a good pace, we should be able to reach Port Fenn by tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully," and Loghain said this with a grimace, "We can find a merchant ship willing to transport us to Orlais the day after."

The Warden patted her rumbling stomach again, pursing her lips in annoyance at the plan. "Why are you in such a hurry to get to Orlais?"

"I'm not in a hurry," he denied, avoiding her gaze.

"No, you are in a hurry. You've been moody and snappish up until this point. Why, I can veritably see the glimmer of excitement in your eyes." She reached out her hand and captured his chin with her fingers. Slowly she turned his head so that he looked at her. "Tell me what is bothering you." She smiled. "Please."

Loghain pulled away from her touch. "Anora," he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to go to Orlais for Anora?"

He nodded. "The chest of letters we found in Ostagar, you remember them?"

"I do."

Loghain licked his lips, his mouth opened partially as if he was reconsidering something.

"Please," the Warden said again. "I want to help. I'd like to understand."

"Anora," Loghain said slowly, "had heard a rumor from one of her handmaidens about Cailan." He gave her a level gaze. "A rumor that no father wants to hear."

The Warden's lips puckered into an "o" shape. Her head inclined, bobbing slightly for him to continue.

Loghain couldn't stop the dark laughter that escaped his lips, "I should probably tell you that Cailan was not very good at keeping secrets. The boy had no common sense and would talk your ear off anywhere within the castle. Not a sound strategy when you have servants with very large ears."

"And?"

"And," Loghain continued, "Anora's handmaiden overheard Cailan and Eamon speaking."

"About Anora?"

"No," he shook his head, "about the Empress Celene."

The Warden frowned. "What about her?"

"Cailan was going to divorce Anora."

Her eyes widened in shock. "He was going to…what?"

"Cailan," Loghain said bitterly, "was going to divorce Anora and marry the Empress of Orlais. He was going to just _hand _Ferelden to Orlais so he could call himself an Emperor! Everything his father and mother had worked for, had fought for, would have been completely thrown away."

"They always appeared to be so…" She struggled for the words. 'In love' was not exactly correct, but from what she had seen of the two interact, Cailan had followed Anora around like a devoted Mabari puppy. "Are you sure?" asked the Warden, her face still a mask of surprise. "It seems very unlike him."

"When Anora first told me of the rumor, I pegged it to women's gossip. My concern was not in her marital troubles, but in preparing our armies for battle against the darkspawn." He gestured helplessly, hands coming up before him with their palms raised to the sky. "But what father can refuse a daughter's fears? Her words weighed heavily on my mind and I asked the boy about it." Loghain's expression soured. "Cailan denied it, said he loved Anora more than the sun and moon. I can see now that his earnestness was a well-played ruse." He dipped low, slipping his fingers into the top of his boot and pulled out two slips of paper. He said nothing as he passed them to his companion.

The Warden took the letters with some trepidation. Her fingers pinched and smoothed the worn edges as her eyes flowed over the elegant, curving script. It was…very Orlesian writing, from the small embellishments to the tiny doodles. "Oh…oh _my," _she said as she finished it. "It sounds as though she was planning to come to Ferelden."

"She was," affirmed Loghain grimly. "To Denerim. Not as though she'd _deign _to live in our backwater city though. All she could stomach is a visit."

"I," the Warden replied slowly, hesitant to agree, "Wouldn't put those words in her mouth. However, she…addresses him with a great deal of familiarity. How long," she asked, "had this correspondence been occurring?"

He shrugged, armor creaking. "I have no idea. It could have been years. I suspect though," Loghain's voice pitched low, "it was a long time."

"I suppose I should not speak ill of the dead, but Cailan did not really seem the type to plan these sorts of things. He lacked a certain…_gumption, _as I heard it." The Warden's father had never spoken poorly of King Cailan, but he had never glossed over the king's flaws, either. "Still, he always seemed to look as though he loved Anora."

"Appearances can be deceiving; you know more than anyone would know about that." Loghain gave her a meaningful glance. "But you're right; I suspect it is not completely the boy's fault. In fact, I _know _it is not completely his fault." He gestured for her to read the other letter.

The Warden gasped. "…Eamon?"

"The very same man who aided you against me has been plotting against the Fereldan throne for who knows how long." Loghain chuckled bitterly. "He's always politely hid his disdain for non-nobles, but you can see what he's thinking. It glitters in his eyes."

"What is this love affair with Theirin blood?" The Warden passed the letters back into Loghain's keeping, pushing them away with some disgust. "I'll never understand it."

Loghain slipped the letters back into his boat, grunting at the effort that it took to reach down and replace them comfortably. "Don't ask me, girl. I only spent the better part of my life trying to protect it, and am now beginning to regret doing so."

"Don't say that," the Warden put her hand on his arm, "Maric was your friend."

"And Anora is my daughter," he shrugged away her hand as he straightened. "Maric's bloodline seems to be steeped in adultery. Like father, like son."

"Alistair -"

He raised a hand in protest and when he spoke to interrupt her, his tone was biting and harsh. "Would probably have supplanted you too. And like Cailan, he would have been led by the nose by the master puppeteer, Eamon." He noticed the way that the Warden's eyes narrowed, her brows furrowing in insult. "Don't look at me like that. Just because you refuse to believe it doesn't make it any less true."

The Warden couldn't help how indignant she sounded, for indignant was how she felt. "Why would _I _be supplanted? I'm a Cousland, my bloodline runs just as long as Alistair's. The deeds of my ancestors are no less great."

"Girl, that doesn't matter." He dropped his eyes to her stomach and then to between her legs. He let his gaze linger there long enough for her to understand his meaning, and he waited until he saw her head drop to follow his gaze before he spoke again. "Can you bare children?"

"That is," she said in a voice as cold as Lake Calenhad's waters, "none of your concern."

"It would be _your_ concern," he explained, "if you were Queen. You read that letter; you saw what was to become of Anora. If you were unable to provide Alistair with heirs, another younger, prettier woman would have supplanted you. Oh of course," he said with a wave of his hand, "you'd have probably kept Amaranthine, but you would have lost your dignity. For some reason," he all but sneered, "Theirin blood is so remarkably special that it supersedes everything else in this world."

"This is of course," the Warden attempted to steer this conversation away from the disastrous end it was heading, "assuming Anora is barren."

"While I would find it highly ironic to think that the seed of Maric could not produce his own offspring, I often find that such things don't come to pass in the real world." His mouth drew into a thin line. "But you're right. There is no proof that the blame lies with Anora." Though Loghain and others might say those words, there were very few people willing to blame a king for a lack of heirs.

The Warden sighed, shaking her head in demonstration of her disbelief. It sent her braid swaying across her back. "I am…still finding it hard to believe. Eamon? Truly?"

"You shouldn't be surprised." Loghain squeezed Gharin's sides, keeping the horse on a steady, straight pace. Gharin had been listing leftward for the majority of their conversation, and Loghain did not wish to have a mouthful of pine brush tree. "He hid his little mageling son so that his younger brother couldn't inherit his Arling upon his death."

The Warden also adjusted Brake's course, realizing that it had been her touching and placating of Loghain that had nearly forced them off the road. Or it might have been Dane, she saw from the corner of her eye, slowly nudging Brake's left hindquarters with his head that had caused them to drift.

Taking the Warden's silence for agreement, Loghain continued. "Nothing Eamon does is without some motivation. I think the only reason he took Alistair was to gain some sort of leverage over Maric, rather than protect his younger brother from scandal. By all rights, Teagan should have been the one to claim responsibility for the bastard. Nothing strange with a good looking boy of noble birth siring a babe or two before marriage."

"I don't think the relationship between Teagan and Eamon is like that at all," replied the Warden in a tone that was harsher than she intended. "And while Eamon's obsession with Theirin blood concerns me, I would not accuse him of deeper intrigue."

Loghain brushed aside her protest. "You obviously don't know the man well enough. He was willing to wage civil war in a time of crisis just so he could further his own ends."

"Loghain," the Warden was taken aback by her second's blinding, one-sided argument, "you're a student of history as much as I am. There would have been civil war regardless of the Blight. Anora didn't have any claim to the Fereldan throne except by marriage. She would have been forced to step down as others with better claims of kinship to Cailan and Maric came forward. If she did not, things would have become violent. That is how these matters have always been resolved."

"There was always the possibility," said Loghain slowly, laboriously, as if he had had this discussion with someone else before, "that the Landsmeet might have sanctified her as ruler."

"You would put your faith in the _Landsmeet? _ You? You who have told me so often that the Landsmeet only works in its own interests?"

"Don't patronize me girl," he snapped in response. His blue eyes flashed dangerously in her direction.

"I'm not patronizing you; I'm just confused about your faith in having them see reason. The nobles there would never have allowed Anora to continue to rule when one of the more established bloodlines could have taken the throne. That is," the Warden's chuckle was weak, "assuming that there were no Theirins seven-times removed to flaunt their kinship."

"I am aware," Loghain spoke through a clenched jaw, "of the history between King Arland the Unfailingly Stupid and Arlessa Sophia Dryden, Her Reputable Commander of the _Grey_. And in a strange turn of irony, both Arland and Alistair won their thrones because they were thought to be easily manipulated by the Banns."

"No," disagreed the Warden, "he…_Alistair…_ascended because of claim. Anora didn't have a claim, unlike Sophia, who did."

Loghain waved his hand again, dismissing her explanation. "Let's pretend for a moment that there was no one else with Calenhad's blood. Who else would have claim to lead Ferelden in a time of war? Who else could _lead_? We all know who kept Ferelden running after Cailan took the throne."

"With no other Theirins?" The Warden paused in thought. "Anyone could have made a claim then. Eamon, Teagan, even my father."

"Ah," a glimmer of smirk warmed the previously stony expression on the older Grey Warden's face, "I see you remember that piece of gossip I told you about your father."

"You may wish to think that Anora could have ruled," said the Warden quietly, grimly, her eyes directed to the path ahead rather than at the man by her side, "you may have moved your pieces across the broad to avert civil war, but war would have come. Someone with a better claim would have risen, perhaps not better intent, but better blood nonetheless. And then," she stopped, running her tongue over her dry lips, "you would have marched. If you won the battle for Anora, perhaps you would have won the war for her too, settled all disputes for good and she could have ruled in peace. But if you had lost, if she had lost, then she would have been forced to bend the knee to another."

"You're speaking in the wrong tense," Loghain replied, just as quietly. "I did lose, remember?"

"Well," the Warden's eyes darted to his face, "it is a good thing that you lost to me then."

Loghain met her eyes with a small nod. "I would be happier having you on the throne than Alistair."

"Would I have been a better ruler than Anora?" The Warden knew she was pressing her luck with her teasing, but she hoped he understood her intent.

"I'm obligated to say no." After a small pause, his lips pulled back into a sardonic smile, "because if Anora ever found out, she'd probably kill me."

"I suppose I shall let you off the hook then," the Warden gave him a knowing wink, "I would have hated to have skewered you with my sword to defend my honor. I suppose I can forgive you for your fatherly duties."

"That's for the best," his hand came to rest gently on the sword pommel at his hip, "since I think it would have been you skewered on mine."

"You," the Warden wagged her finger at him, "and your wicked tongue."

"Hah."

The two of them lapsed into silence for some time, riding briskly along the road. Loghain's keen eyes were prowling the scenery, on the lookout for landmarks and other markers that would indicate how close they were to the trade path that pushed northward towards Port Fenn. Dane kept pace easily with them, bouncing along the road with the happy gait of freedom.

It was about three hours before the Warden found the energy to speak again, having found herself almost completely drained from her earlier exchange with Loghain. She was long out of practice in the rigors of debate, it seemed. She had been musing about what Loghain had said of Eamon, and how he was the grand mastermind between what appeared to be a very large political schism within Ferelden. No doubt, Eamon was aware of Loghain's suspicions about Cailan's correspondence with the Empress Celene, and it was likely that he thought Loghain had left Cailan on the battlefield because he had found out the truth.

He had been very supportive of Alistair's courtship of her. She was sure that some of the baubles Alistair had found her had come from Eamon, since, like Cailan, Alistair sometimes seemed to lack the ability for free thought. Yet, all Eamon had done when Alistair had decided to end it between them was pat her on the shoulder. A Theirin-Cousland marriage should have been the veritable gem in the Arl's crown. That he did not press harder for reconciliation between them was jarring.

And so when it was that when she spoke, it was with the hushed tones of deep thought. "Eamon should have been chomping at the bit for a Theirin-Cousland match."

"No doubt he was _very_ disappointed when Alistair chose to break it off with you. It probably destroyed all his well-laid plans." Loghain's voice was dripping with faked sympathy. "Count yourself lucky that you got out when you did. Women like you and Anora were not meant to babysit brainless bastards."

"That's harsh, don't you think?"

He shrugged. "When you've lived as long as I have, you begin to see people for what they are."

"Oh? And what do you see when you look at me then?" she asked, tilting her chin back, just _daring _him to do as she asked.

With a raise of his eyebrows and a small cant of his head, Loghain began his assessment. "I see a young woman. A _very _young woman," his eyes found fair hair whipping in the wind, cheeks speckled with pink, lips pursed in expectation, and a stubborn grey eye that could look at him with anger one moment and compassion the next, "who is bright, full of courage, and has yet to have the world strip her of her innocence."

"Oh," she said, voice low and mellow, "but you are charming, knowing of my innocence."

"You asked for my assessment," he replied with some amusement, "you did not say you had to like it. Besides, you may not flinch when you kill a man, but you lack the pragmatism for calculated loss."

"I fail to see that." It was true, the Warden did, for the most part, try and choose scenarios where the least amount of loss would occur. She would negotiate rather than duel, seek stealth rather than a frontal assault, and pick odds that were the most favorable. She could not recall too many situations where the best outcome meant sacrificing a large amount of people. But in saying that, she had _lost _individuals for the greater good. She had _lost _Alistair for the Grey Warden cause, and while at the time it had been a sloppy and unintended turn of events, she would have seen it done anyway. Just because she had _not _publically demonstrated her pragmatism did not mean she was not capable of it.

"Don't mistake my words; there is nothing wrong with being innocent," he elaborated, "there's not enough innocence left in this world. I wouldn't have you lose it so soon."

The Warden smoothed back the stray bits of hair that were being whipped around by a sudden gust of wind. "Loghain, I am the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden. I do not have the time for innocence." Her fingers slipped below the band of her eye patch, carefully tucking the hair away. "I have a reputation to build, and I will not tolerate losing it because of preconceived notions about my youth and ability. Don't perpetuate these thoughts."

"Are you ordering that?"

"Do I have to?" She gave him a pointed stare.

Loghain sighed. "Very well. You are a very young woman, bright, and full of courage. I amend my earlier statements: you are not at all innocent. You are probably a cold, calculating bitch beneath the smile you wear. There, am I forgiven? Or have I gone too far, _Commander_?"

"You are perfectly fine," she assured him with toothy grin. "And, when you tell people that make sure you don't forget my good looks. Nothing says beauty more than dirty fingernails and an eye patch."

"You'll be in luck." He dipped his head northward in acknowledgement of their destination. "Knowing the way the Orlesians are, that is probably all the rage in Val Royeaux. You'll fit right in."

"I look forward to blending in. It will be a nice change."

Loghain didn't respond, having turned his attention back to the road and maintaining the pace he had set. He calculated another six or so hours of riding, stopping when they came to the road heading north to the coast. After a few hours of rest, they'd ride into the night and through morning.

"So what is it that you plan to do once we get to Orlais?" asked the Warden, interrupting Loghain's thoughts. "Do you plan to march up to the Empress herself and demand that she explain her intentions towards your deceased son-in-law?"

Loghain didn't even have to think about the answer to that question. "I'd kill her, if I could get close enough."

"Loghain," the Warden scolded, "be serious."

"I am serious." He gave a frustrate exhale of breath. "Short of what I'd like to do, yes, I would ask her what her intentions were with my son-in-law and what she had hoped to gain from it."

"I don't think she'd answer such a direct question."

"Then perhaps," Loghain answered irritably, "you can find out the answers for me, since you seem to have a better grasp of the Empress's mind."

"Riordan," the Warden noticed how Loghain's jaw tensed as she said the name, "mentioned that Empress Celene was quite a supporter of the Grey Wardens, giving them great gifts and boons. I may be able to get her to like me. We probably enjoy many of the same things, and I am a Grey Warden, as well as nobility."

Loghain wiped a hand across his face, his fingers coming to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly. "It pains me to think of you talking about shoes and fashion with the Empress of Orlais."

"And," the Warden playfully steered Brake close enough so that she could knock her shoulder against Loghain's, "it pains me to think of you being executed for regicide. I saved you from it once; I do not think I could do it again."

"Save me," asked Loghain, staring at her from behind his fingers, "or suffer my loss?"

She chuckled. "Suffer your loss. Who else would still call me innocent if you were rotting in an Orlesian prison?"

"Teagan." Loghain heard her snort in rebuttal and couldn't help the way it made the corners of his lips quirk upward. "Do you remember when I disarmed you at the Landsmeet?"

"I let you disarm me."

"Just like I let you win," Loghain rolled his eyes. "You had your back to the nobles, so you didn't see Teagan Guerrin's reaction. Teagan has never struck me," he explained, "as a man bred for war. He wears his crafted armor proudly, and I'm sure he can swing a sword well enough to protect the people of his bannorn, but he's not a soldier."

"And what's your point?"

"I've never seen a man more ready to _kill _me. I think," he laughed quietly to himself, "if you had not managed to pull down Maric's sword from the wall and finish the match, he would have finished it for you."

The Warden said nothing, staring at Loghain with a curious glint in her eyes. Heat crept up her neck and cheeks.

"Maker's breath, girl, are you _blushing_? Do you," he dropped his voice low, so low that the Warden could feel it vibrating through the air towards her, "_like _Bann Teagan?"

"I blush because I am flattered," she said huffily, turning to look at the road. "I am allowed to be flattered when others are concerned for my safety." And her blush continued as Loghain's tone continued to deepen.

"I think he was a little more concerned for something other than _that._"

"Stop it," she pleaded, "this is embarrassing."

But Loghain did not stop. "Poor Teagan, he always comes last in Eamon's plans."

"You are," the Warden raised a hand and clenched it into a fist, "so engrossed in that family."

"It is only fair, considering how engrossed they have been in mine. Besides," his tone softened, "the only good thing that came from their mother's womb was Rowan."

"Having never met her, I will take your word for it." The Warden allowed her own tone to follow suit, "though I like Teagan, and I wish you would not speak ill of my friends."

"You know, you remind me of Rowan sometimes," Loghain continued in a quiet voice. "When you aren't reminding me of Maric. Sometimes I see you from the corner of my eye and…" he stopped. She didn't really need to know that sometimes he saw Rowan riding beside him, dark, curly hair pushing back into the breeze, her stubborn chin tilted up to the sunlight, the same strong-willed grey eyes daring the clouds to come.

The Warden saw Loghain's reticence as a lapse into memory, though she wasn't sure in what memory he lingered. He was looking just beyond her into a field of red poppy flowers, his blue eyes dull and far away.

It was several moments before he drew himself out of the reverie. "It doesn't matter." His eyes fell back upon the road before them. "We're pressing on until we reach the road to Port Fenn. We'll stop then."

All the Warden could do was merely nod her head in acknowledgement, understanding that when Loghain wanted to share with her what was on his mind, he would. Pressing the issue now would do nothing, and whatever it was that had him looking so haunted and alone would most assuredly come again.

She would bide her time. For now.

And so the Wardens rode through the day and into the night, coming upon the road to Port Fenn an hour or so after the red twilight had faded away into blackness. At the signpost that marked the way they rested, letting the horses graze while they ate a feast of their dried rations. They did not need to conserve their food for much longer, given that they were no longer journeying to Orlais on foot. They would, however, need to resupply in the Val Royeaux market before they set out for Weisshaupt, but that would not be for a week or two.

Dane chewed happily on the pieces of thick, dried jerky that his mistress tossed his way, grumbling and growling as he worried away on it. The Warden was doing much the same, though she was gnawing daintily on a salted strip of pork that was proving to be more than a match for her jaw. Loghain was eating his dessert course first, popping dried apricots in his mouth.

Upon settling, he had offered one of the little orange nubs to Dane, who had been pawing at his side for food and attention once they stopped. Dane had mistakenly thought that the apricot was a small piece of meat, and so had barked and danced easily for it. Loghain had offered it to him and Dane inhaled it eagerly, taking several moments to realize that the apricot was not, in fact, a delicious treat and was, in fact, a piece of dried fruit. He had given Loghain the most _miserable _of looks, coughing and choking on the fruit until it landed as a wet heap on the Warden's boots. She had thanked both Loghain and Dane for such a present.

After that incident, Dane had once more become the Warden's closest companion, snuggling next to her, whining softly at her, and cuddling into her legs like a lapdog. All the while the mabari shot betrayed glances in Loghain's direction.

Dane had taken a strange liking to Loghain, often preferring his company to the Warden's, and the Warden would have been lying to herself if she said she wasn't a little bit jealous. Now that things were back to normal, she gave a contented sigh and stroked Dane's head as he ate. He glowered at Loghain from below her hand, teeth bared at the other Grey Warden who had tried to poison him.

Loghain had offered to take the first watch, settling his aching back against the wooden signpost while the Warden rested on the earth beside him, using Dane as a pillow. The horses were tethered to the signpost, though they were still grazing. Loghain watched the Warden as she slept, noticing how her face was a perfect mask of neutrality in repose. It was a different sort of neutrality than the expression she most often wore around strangers, as that one looked as though it had been well practiced and gained over time. This one was completely natural, and, as much as she would have hated him to say it, innocent.

And when it was Loghain's turn to sleep, the Warden made the same observation of him. When asleep, the lines of his face smoothed away. She had always been envious of the long lashes he had sported, dark and rich against the paleness of his eyes, and from her angle, she was getting a good view of them. In the time she had been asleep, Dane had seemed to forgive Loghain and was allowing the man to use him as a pillow for his head. His face pressed against Dane's fur, she could almost imagine him as a younger man doing the same to Adalla. Loghain was cut from Fereldan soil and was as stubborn as their country's weather at times. She gave him an extra hour of rest, if only to see the plains of his face be so still and smooth.

Both Grey Wardens were always easy to rise out of their slumber, and so it did not take Loghain long to remount Gharin and press their march north again. They were still several hours beyond dawn and the stars were still bright. The night was pleasantly mild for this portion of the world, and neither felt the need to pull out their fur cloaks for warmth.

Dawn passed them, raising the curtain of her grey hair to reveal the golden hair of her sister, Morning. Morning flirted and danced with them along the road, hiding behind fluffy white clouds before exposing herself in a brilliant expanse of blue. She followed the Grey Wardens to Port Fenn, aging with each step, and waved them goodbye as they reached their destination at midday.

Port Fenn was one of the largest coastal trading sites along the Waking Sea, and ships were always waiting for mooring space along one of Port Fenn's massive docks. Though removed from the majority of Ferelden, the port suffered no lack of business for its location, transporting both Fereldan and foreign goods across the Waking Sea.

Its success came from its proximity to Orzammar, and the port's origins were steeped in Chantry history. It was once a Chantry controlled town, having been established for transporting lyrium from Orzammar to the rest of Chantry-controlled Thedas. It was quicker to ship lyrium to Val Royeaux via Port Fenn than to have the mules carry it long distance over land. Proof of its history could be seen in the old, yet still functioning chantry in the center of the trading village that had sprung around the port.

In addition to boasting a wide range of trade routes and a lucrative past, Port Fenn could also boast about its rather colorful population. Dwelling within the many wooden structures of the village were men and women from across Ferelden, the Free Marches, Orlais and Antiva. Most of them were visitors, stopping briefly for a week before their voyages took them elsewhere, and as such, Port Fenn did not lack for inns to house them all.

Wandering through the curving streets, the Wardens kept their eyes on the lookout for an inn suitable to their tastes. Loghain had gotten into the habit of choosing the cheapest and smelliest of inns for them to rest in. The beds that had slept on in civilization were no softer than the ground that they slept on in the wilderness. The Warden had often remarked bitterly that there was no point to spending a night in an inn at all, except when it was raining. To her chagrin, Loghain had steered them clear of as many towns as he could after that complaint.

This time, the Warden was determined to choose the inn and spend some of the coin that was burning holes in her pockets. What they had not spent in all the cheap inns they had missed they could spend for a few nights in a large, comfortable inn with _hot _water baths and _soft _beds. Her father had visited Port Fenn several times, and so she knew which inn catered to her tastes.

"The Lily White Queen is opposite the chantry," explained the Warden, casting her eyes up to the rooftops to find the chantry's central spire, "we'll see if we can't get rooms there before we secure passage to Orlais."

"The Lily White Queen?" asked Loghain with a raised eyebrow. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer the Salty Shell?" He tossed his head in the direction of a small, dingy building with a creaking wooden sign half off its hinges.

The Warden scowled. "We deserve _some _respite. Besides, we're spending my coin."

"Oh, it's your coin, is it? It isn't Grey Warden coin?"

"No, I left all of that behind in Amaranthine. This is Cousland coin. From Fergus."

"Ah, very generous of your brother. No doubt he persuaded his banns to part with it easily on behalf of his valiant younger sister." Loghain regretted the bitterness in his voice the moment he saw her scowl slip away into her placid, ice-water mask. "That sounded crueler than I meant it to be."

She nodded. "Of course."

Loghain found the silent walk towards the Lily White Queen awkward, and that was saying something since Loghain never found silence awkward. Except when it was with her. With the Warden, silence had to come from a pleasant lapse in conversation, it had to stretch out and ride with them as a long-time companion. When it came abruptly, when it came with the sudden drawing of a curtain, silence was not welcome. Yet, Loghain was not a man to let silence cow him and as a result, he felt no need to fill it. If it were to be awkward, then awkward it would be.

The Lily White Queen was an old but well kept building across from the chantry just as the Warden said it would be. Its wood had been bleached by years in the salt and the sun, and it shone like a white beacon amidst the graying and fading buildings beside it. Tiny flower motifs were carved into the wood of the building, paying homage to the building's own name. Nestled amongst the lilies were small crowns, too. Curving alongside the tavern, which appeared to span nearly an entire length of street, was a stable. It was there that the Grey Wardens deposited their horses in the care of a waiting stable hand, who assured them that they had rooms available.

The Wardens slung their saddlebags over their shoulders, Loghain wincing at the effort of raising his arms, before bidding him farewell. Dane gave the man a friendly bark, though the stable hand only inched away from the Mabari in fear.

Though he was preoccupied with the trip to Orlais, Loghain's first priority was getting a bed to sleep in. His second was some food, and his third was a hot bath. Loghain had not traveled at a military's pace without a military's accompaniment in some time. He was used to, he hated to admit it, a different way of living. He was sore _everywhere. _ He needed to be out of his armor, take a long soak, and then lie flat and unmoving on a bed.

The Warden was not as sore, but she had much the same desires as Loghain. Food would have been welcome, as she was still voraciously hungry and somehow salted pork didn't quite make her feel replete. Sleep was an excellent idea, though she hated acknowledging her need for it. And a bath was just a bonus.

Dane wanted food. And sleep. But no bath.

They entered the inn, the Warden nudging open the door with her shoulder gently. Truly, she thought, she was in heaven. The room was empty, save for an elf plucking at a harp. Soft looking armchairs and tiny tables were arranged in a quaint fashion about the room, providing comfortable, private seating for groups of four or less. Lacy curtains were drawn over the thin windows, letting thin rays of light shine in through the porous weave. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, beside which trailed the long, wooden bar and a closed door that presumably led to the kitchen. A staircase and another set of doors fell against a far, windowless wall across the room. Behind the bar stood presumably the tavern keeper.

The tavern keeper was an older woman, her graying hair kept high in a thick braid pinned to her head. She looked between the two Grey Wardens with mercurially quick green eyes. "Have I seen you before, miss," she asked of the Warden, placing her spindly hands on her narrow hips.

"Not I," replied the Warden smiling, "but you have met my father before. Bryce Cousland?"

The tavern keeper put a hand to her heart. "Maker bless that man, but Ferelden will miss him."

The Warden could only bob her head in agreement. Dane barked his.

"You have your father's face," said the older woman, "it was just hard to place you with only…" she touched her fingers to just below her left eye. "Well. Only one eye. I never forget a face," she explained. "But where are my manners? Come in, come in." She slipped through the space between the fireplace and the bar's end, closing in the Wardens. "My name is Magda, and the Lily has been in my family for generations."

"It is a lovely establishment," the Warden adjusted her saddle with a small wince, "my father spoke very highly of it the few times he stayed here."

"I am honored that his daughter, the Hero of Ferelden, has remembered it. Here," Magda reached out her hands, "let me take one of those bags and I will escort you and your husband to your room."

"Oh, no," the Warden shook her head, speaking before Loghain could open his mouth, "we'll have two separate rooms." She clutched her saddlebag to her shoulder protectively.

Loghain raised an eyebrow at that. He expected, 'Oh, no' to be followed by, 'he's not my husband.' Curious.

"And Dane comes inside with us." That was the most critical point. They would not stay in the inn if it didn't allow Dane to stay with them.

"Of course, of course." Magda turned to the stairs, lifting the hem of the thick, navy blue fabric as she ascended. "Watch the door, Samra!"

"Of course!" called back the elven harpist.

"Samra is," explained Magda as she lead the Wardens up to the second level of her establishment, "a dear woman, but sometimes loses herself to her music."

"Is she your servant?" asked the Warden, looking at the small painted portraits of various men and women who looked like Magda lining the walls of the staircase.

"No." Magda stopped half way up the stairs, turning over her shoulder to stare with narrowed eyes at the Warden. "Why? Does it appear that way?"

The Warden slowly turned her gaze to Magda's. "No, not at all. This place just seems so large and well kept. You must have help."

This caused Magda to beam from ear to ear, and when she returned to walking there was a spring in her steps. "Oh no, I take care of the Lily all on my own. My husband, Walter, does the cooking, our son minds the horses, and my daughters assist me with the cleaning and serving."

"You do a wonderful job." Loghain's compliment was one of sincerity. While he had originally been put off by the idea at spending a few nights in such a highbrow establishment, it was clear that this was a family industry with as much as history behind it as there was work. Loghain would be the last person to belittle someone else's livelihood.

"You are both very kind." Magda saw them down to the end of a long corridor, pulling out a thick ring of keys from a pocket in the bright yellow apron she wore. She slipped it into the door's lock and ushered the two Wardens and their dog into what appeared to be a small common room. Two doors to their right presumably led to a pair of bedrooms. "This was the room your father and Arl Howe used to use."

The Warden felt her good eye twitch at the mention of Rendon Howe. "Well, thank you. It is much larger than what I was expecting. A bed would have been enough."

"Well, you have a bed _and _you have a bath." Magda pointed to the wooden screens within the room. "Two baths."

"This is strange," said the Warden, "thinking of my father bathing in sight of Arl Howe."

Magda chuckled. "There was a screen between them."

"That probably," Loghain said with the faintest hint of teasing, "doesn't make her feel any better. Best tell her which of the beds Howe slept in and which one her father did."

"I honestly wouldn't know," Magda chewed her lip in thought. "It should hardly matter, since the rushes and linens have been changed since then."

"_Anyway_," the Warden interjected, "thank you, Magda. We'll put our stuff down and then I'll come down to collect the key and pay for our first night."

Magda inclined her head in acknowledgement. "As you wish. Would you like me to have one of my daughters come up to prepare you both a bath tonight? Perhaps bring you some eccles cakes in the meantime? They should be out of the oven by now. My Walter makes the best pastries."

Loghain was taken aback by the woman's generosity. "Eccles cakes, you say? Madam, that's an offer I can't turn down." Eccles cakes were a favorite sweet of Loghain's, though he hadn't made it a habit to eat too many of them. His wife, Celia, had introduced him to them. They reminded him of a time before Anora, when the chilly autumn nights in Gwaren had not been as cold or lonely.

"Then I will send Bethany up," Magda sent Loghain a pleased smile.

The Warden pushed open the closest door on her right and without taking too much stock of her room deposited her saddlebag on the floor in front of the bed. She shut the door behind her as she returned to the common room, passing by Loghain with a nod of her head and the sound of _chinking_ armor. She paid no mind to Dane who was sniffing around the edges of the room, no doubt catching the familiar smell of Bryce. She followed Magda out of their room, back down the hallway with its droll lily fixtures, and down the staircase where all of Magda's antecedents lay waiting.

Samra was tickling the strings of her harp as they descended, humming a counterpart melody as she played. The elf's raven black hair hung loose over her bare shoulders, revealing white skin riddled with graying scars. Of particular note was the large burn on the elf's forearm, having long since healed into a raised, white scar. The Warden peered at it curiously, for the scar looked to be some sort of symbol.

Magda caught her staring. "She is from Antiva. She was a slave. That mark there? That was the insignia of her master's house."

The Warden felt the burning anger in her gut, but chose to hold her tongue.

"You look ill," Magda's hand trailed along the bar top as she slipped behind the counter. "You find the idea repulsive?"

"I do."

"You're a good girl. Your father would be proud."

Again, the Warden said nothing.

"Five sovereigns for one night," said Magda quietly. "It would normally cost you ten, but because you seem to be a woman of moral character and your father was always generous with his coin, I'm waiving the other five. Plus," she seemed to say this with some smug satisfaction, "none of the other inns here can say that they have hosted the Hero of Ferelden."

"You are very kind," was all the Warden could reply, too surprised by the woman's discount. Her eyes reflected her surprise, for it seemed that Magda chuckled too knowingly at her. Reaching into the coin purse at her belt, she slipped five gold pieces the woman's way. The pouch still hung heavily on her hip. "I don't suppose you know of ships on their way to Val Royeaux, do you?"

"Lots of captains heading that way by the end of the week, if local talk is anything to go by." Magda slipped the Warden's coins into a pocket of her apron. "Some of them should be in the common room tonight for supper. You can start your search then, if you like."

"I imagine that they probably don't want to be disturbed during their dinners." The Warden gave a fleeting look to the common room, "I know I wouldn't."

"Who would deny Ferelden's savior anything?" asked Magda wonderingly.

"A lot of people," replied the Warden in a dry voice. "We'll head to the docks and ask around anyway. If we shouldn't find anything, we'll ask around tonight."

Magda nodded. "Of course. I'll go fetch you those cakes before you head upstairs again." She disappeared through the heavy door that separated the common room from the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a small cloth bundle. "Two eccles cakes, fresh out of the oven." Along with the bundle, Magda also slipped the Warden an extra key to her rooms.

"He will certainly appreciate it, thank you." The Warden bowed her head and made her way back upstairs, giving Samra another once over as she did. The pretty elf didn't seem to take any notice of anything else in the room, her eyes were closed, and her attention was fully focused on the music she made.

Dane was resting on one of the room's couches and Loghain was struggling removing his leg plates when the Warden returned, his fingers unable to loosen the buckles that held them in place. Loghain was still fully armored, save for his gauntlets that lay on the nearby table.

"Eat this," the Warden shoved the bundle into his chest, dropping with some pain (and a loud _thud_) to her knees before him, "I'll help." Her gauntlets clattered to the floor so that her thinner, more dexterous fingers could undo the buckles.

As the Warden worked, Loghain plucked apart the edges of the cloth bundle, revealing the warm, buttery bodies of the eccles cakes. He picked one of them up between his fingers, reveling in the delightfully solid nature of the little current-filled morsels. They were heavy things, these flaky cakes. He could feel the stickiness of the current juices seeping out from the tiny slats on the treat's top. He brought it to his lips, letting his teeth pierce the thin layers of pastry, push past the tender fruit center, and then again pierce pastry. They were just as he remembered: sweet, crunchy, but also chewy. The black currents, though dried, popped in his mouth as he chewed and mingled with the nutmeg and cinnamon. He eagerly licked the pastry crumbs from his lips.

At his feet, the Warden could hear the satisfied crunching from above. "Are they as delicious as they smell?" A second crunch was her answer, and she chuckled, freeing his legs from their protective armor. "I hope," she pushed herself to a stand, "you saved me one."

Loghain offered her the other pastry, watching the way she daintily bit into it, how her eye became half-lidded in pleasure as she chewed. The Warden was smiling impishly at him, chewing with a sinfully slow pace.

"She certainly was not joking. These are delicious." The Warden took another (larger) bite.

Loghain nodded. "Some of the best I've had." He was surprised when the Warden offered him the other half of the eccles cake, staring at him with some expectation. "No," he shook his head, "it's yours."

"I insist," her tongue flicked a flake of cake from her upper lip. "There are more downstairs if I want them. This half was more than enough. I shouldn't have too many sweets."

Loghain didn't quite believe her, but took what she offered. It easily fit into his mouth, and she watched him with the same pleased expression she had when she'd first tasted the thing.

During this exchange, Dane eyed them both balefully. While he also wanted a cake, he did not trust either of them not to poison him again.

"Magda says that there are quite a few ships bound to Val Royeaux by the end of the week and that some of the captains will be stopping into the Lily tonight for dinner. However," the Warden paused briefly as she bent down to gather her gauntlets, "I was thinking that they probably wouldn't want to be disturbed during their dinner, so we should head to the docks now to find passage, and should we be unsuccessful, we can approach the captains tonight."

"Sounds like a fine plan," said Loghain, wiggling out the currents still stuck in his teeth with his tongue, "we have plenty of daylight left."

"I thought you'd see it that way," the Warden allowed herself to smirk. She quickly debated whether or not she wanted to refasten her gauntlets, but decided against it. "Come, let's see what we find."

Truth be told, the Wardens were not expecting to find much. Passage on a cargo or merchant ship likely meant paying double the cost of what they were willing to spend and passing the time below deck sleeping on the floor. They were not about to charter any sort of vessel to take them to Orlais, as some noble might do. Loghain had made it clear that they were _only _to travel on a Ferelden vessel, or else she could wait for him to arrive in Orlais on foot. The Warden had assured him they'd find a Ferelden captain somewhere in Port Fenn, though it was finding a Ferelden captain with a big enough boat and room for Brake and Gharin that was the challenge.

It took them three hours to find him, but Captain Brinley Cooper of _Shayna's Promise _was everything they were looking for. He seemed to be an honest fellow, with broad shoulders from a life at sea and a permanently ruddy complexion. The sun had bleached his hair to a marvelous shade of yellow and his eyes were about as brown as the dirt he was standing on, but he shook Loghain's hand with a firm grip and swore on the life of his lady (the ship) that he'd transport the two Grey Wardens, Dane, and their two horses in two days time for seven sovereigns, paid up front before the voyage.

Loghain had liked the man instantly, as had Dane, who was often very good at spotting liars. He had even licked the man's hand, which was something he reserved only for those he was close to. Dane's behavior had caused a strange glimmer to appear in Captain Brinley's eye, and he had knelt before the Mabari and thanked him for his confidence and the gesture of friendship.

"That man has owned a mabari before," said Loghain as they walked back to the Lily White Queen. "You could see it in the way he looked at Dane."

"He looked to be about your age," the Warden mused, "so I could believe that he'd owned one, yes."

"Then he probably lost it to the Orlesians as I did too," he replied bitterly.

"Don't make assumptions," replied the Warden in a soft voice. "It only makes you angry, and we should be enjoying ourselves."

Loghain said nothing to that, keeping his silence all way back to their shared room. He only relented when she asked him when he wanted to eat dinner. "In about two hours," he had replied gruffly.

"Do you want some help with your armor?" she then asked, gesturing to the breastplate and pauldrons he wore.

He wanted to say that he didn't, but Loghain was finding it difficult to raise his arms higher than his elbows, and so suffered the aid of his companion. She was quick to divest him of leather and plate, and as they were in his room, she deposited each piece of armor on the large bed. Dane danced around their legs.

"You'll be polishing these until dinner, won't you?" she gave him a teasing smile.

"I will be," he agreed, eyeing the few pieces of armor that desperately needed polish.

"Will you return the favor?" the Warden batted her eye at him. "You know how much trouble I have with laces."

Loghain had a hard time suppressing his chuckle. When the Warden tried to unlace the strings that kept the padding of her armor in place, she had a tendency to spin herself in a circle and make herself dizzy. It was quite amusing, and while she was always successful, it did take her some time. "I do. Lead on then, madam."

The Warden's room was identical to Loghain's in both dressing and décor. The bed was large, the ornaments were the same, and the candle was even on the same side of the bed. Dane made himself comfortable on his mistress's bed, settling his head on one of the large pillows at its top.

As she had done for him, Loghain worked to unfasten her buckles and unlace her ties. Freeing her from the waist down was an easy affair, but his aching arms and back were struggling with the small laces on her sides and when he had succeeded there, he'd almost not been able to lift his arms high enough to work on the metal plates that protected her shoulders. He leaned on her heavily, his breathing coming in hard, pained puffs of hot hair against the back of her neck.

"You're in pain," said the Warden with a concerned expression, slipping her pauldrons and breastplate off. "Should I fetch a healer? I am sure the chantry will have access to one."

"No," Loghain shook his head, "I'm fine. A hot soak and a good night's rest is all this body needs."

"I will not have you," she said firmly, "march into Orlais ill. If you are not better by tomorrow, I am dragging you to the chantry. Or worse," her eye narrowed, "I'll sling you over my shoulder and carry you."

"We'd be finding _you _the healer then," Loghain bantered back. "And then the good captain will have to wheel us into Orlais on some sort of wheelbarrow."

"What a fine sight we'd be," the Warden smiled at him fondly, touching a hand to one of his sore shoulders, "they'd think we truly were farmers."

"One of us still _is _a farmer."

"Even now you still enjoy sowing seeds?"

Loghain merely raised his eyebrows at her.

The Warden clapped a hand over her mouth, eye wide in mock-mortification.

Loghain leaned forward, pressing his face close to hers. His nose nearly brushed hers. "Yes."

The Warden's eye got wider and her lips worked for purchase around the skin of her palm. She could feel the heat from Loghain's chest pressing through the air towards her. Still, she was not about to let him best her, not like last time. She let her hand lower, placing it on the vulnerable white skin of her throat. "Your tools," she said, voice low, "must be in marvelous condition then."

"They are," he replied, smirking. "Perhaps next time we go to Gwaren, I can show you them." He watched her wet her lips, pink tongue slithering out to glide over them quickly.

"You could prove to me if the rumor is true then."

Loghain regarded her in curiosity. "What rumor?"

The Warden's lips pulled back into a wide grin. "That no man plows a field better than a Mac Tir."

Loghain didn't quite know what to say to that, and he looked at the Warden with a mixture of surprise and amusement. His mouth hung open as if to speak, but he did not intend to do so. He could continue. There were several different things he could say: he could talk about his technique, about her mother having firsthand experience, or about her desire to see it. It was a game he had played long ago, trading these jibes back and forth with Maric when he was drunk. However, it made him feel old and lecherous to propagate this behavior with the Warden. It was unbecoming between a commander and her subordinate, and not entirely appropriate for the ears of a woman. Plus, she was already beginning to stir strange feelings in his gut, and these feelings only intensified when she decided to put her sinful tongue to use.

It was best that he bow out now.

"I win?" the Warden asked in his silence, hopeful, unsure if she could sustain anymore of this dirty banter.

"Because you've rendered me speechless, yes, you win this round." Loghain shook his head in shame and bemusement, retreating from her to the safety of his room. "Come knock on my door when you're hungry," he called out before shutting it.

Both Grey Wardens polished their armors in the private sanctuaries of their rooms, scouring the metal with their brushes before rubbing the wax into the plate. They also oiled the leather straps and buckles, taking special care to not neglect even the most minor of strips. When they had finished with their armor, they moved onto their weapons. Whetstones worked against sword blades, polish fell upon hammered shields, and oil was rubbed into the shield straps.

Loghain was polishing the pommel of his sword when the Warden knocked on his door four hours later. "I'm hungry," she'd told him, patting her stomach for emphasis. "Time for dinner!" He was hungry as well, though he hadn't realized just how much. He had never truly found his appetite that much different after becoming a Grey Warden, having always been a hearty eater. Perhaps the taint would manifest itself within him in different ways.

The Wardens descended to the common room, their grey tunics and black trousers allowing them to pass through the room without attracting much notice. They seated themselves at the table closest to the fire. Dane nestled himself between the Warden's feet, in easy access of her hand in case she decided to feed him scraps, though Dane expected a proper dinner just as they did.

Magda came to their table personally, depositing three meat pies before them. Steam wafted through the tiny slits in the piecrust. The decorative lily motif was placed delicately atop each pie. The Warden placed the third pie on the ground, murmuring a gentle warning about it being hot to Dane. The Lily's owner returned with two flagons of ale and a bowl of water.

"I'm assuming he doesn't partake of the barley?" Magda asked wryly, noticing Dane was face-deep in pie.

"He does, but he gets hiccups." The Warden sighed. "They are very loud hiccups too. No one would be able to sleep tonight."

"Then I'm glad I brought the water. Bethany is getting your baths ready, so you should be able to have them just after dinner." Magda flashed them a smile before leaving.

It was a delicious dinner. The pie had been beef, flavored with bitter ale and farmer's herbs. The sauce had clung to each tender sliver of beef and had sunk deep into the crust, turning the butter pastry into a tender bite. Loghain had washed down two ales while the Warden had nursed hers. Dane had pawed at her leg, begging for a lap, but the Warden denied him his request. He had turned to the water gloomily, using it more to wash the sauce from his nose and jowls than to drink. When both the Wardens had finished their drinks and they were sure that Dane had finished with his water, they returned upstairs.

True to Magda's word, Bethany had drawn each of them a bath. Both tubs were filled with water, a faint vapor of steam rising from the surface of each. The wooden tubs were separated from one another by a screen, and an additional screen had been set up to provide them space in which to disrobe. By each of the tubs, nestled on wooden tables, sat various bathing accoutrements. The tub closest to the door had a small mirror, a razor, and a cup of white, bubbly foam. Dane inspected the set up, sniffing the tables and the tubs, before settling instead for sleeping on the large couch he had found earlier.

"That must be your bath," commented the Warden, seeing the shaving kit.

Loghain eyed the supplies approvingly. "Indeed it must. That puts you against the wall." He had brought his own razor, but it did not look nearly as sharp as the one that lay on the tray.

"Oh," the Warden poked around at the little vials on his tray, "I wonder if they make their own soap too?" She uncorked one of the bottles, smelling it. She smiled in appreciation at the fragrant, earthy scent. She slipped behind her own screen and moved to examine her own soaps. Hers smelled like roses. Placing the vial back on the tray, the Warden went about the task of disrobing.

First, she unpinned her hair, letting the golden curls fall down her back. Then she unfastened the small toggles that held the neck of her tunic together and pulled her tunic over her head in a languid motion. Casually, she draped it over the edge of the screen, kicking off her boots and thick socks as she did so. Her fingers were just about work on the thick piece of coiled fabric that held her breasts tightly to her chest, her index fingers having just hooked below the cloth, when she heard a low, pained grunt from the other side of the screen.

Curiosity getting the better of her, the Warden poked her head around the screen. She saw a barefoot Loghain hunched over, his shirt halfway over his head. His arms were stretched out before him, trapped by the design of the shirt, but she could see how weak and futile his movements were. The Warden moved to his side, her hands grasping the hem of his shirt and completing the motion he had failed. She drew the shirt over his head.

Loghain straightened, looking at her with some mortification. She was dressed in her tight, navel-high breeches and a thick breast band that was revealing far too much of her for his sanity. And there was her hair, the hair that he had wondered about. It hung to the middle of her back, curled and tousled as though she had just been awoken from slumber. But what was worse, what fanned the fire in his gut, was the tone in which she addressed him, that rich, mellow tone that just resonated with everything he considered _woman._

"Pants off," she said quietly, "and get in the bath. I can do the rest."

"No," he shook his head, "I'm fine."

"Raise your arms above your head," she ordered, using her best commander's voice.

Loghain knew he couldn't comply with her command, and instead just stared at her defiantly. His blue eyes bored into her unyielding grey one.

"There's no shame," she said, touching the bare skin of his shoulder gently, "in this."

He disagreed; there most definitely _was _shame in this. He was doing an admirable job of keeping his eyes on her face, and not letting them linger on the pale bits of skin that were exposed to him. It was easy to ignore the stirrings he felt when temptation was not near, but temptation was, at that very moment, just a hand's stretch away. She was a handsome, desirable young woman. Any other man in his position, he consoled himself, would feel exactly the same way.

"You can trust me to take care of you," she continued. "Just as I trust you to take care of me. And," she said, grinning, "I promise I won't tell anyone."

"It would be a scandal," he replied, finding his voice, "Hero of River Dane gets bathed by Hero of Ferelden."

She chuckled. "Mhm. Yes, a very large scandal." She walked back behind her screen, giving Loghain the privacy he needed. When she heard the reluctant sigh followed by the sound of water being parted, she returned to his side.

Loghain sat in the deep tub, his knees poking out of the water. He was resting with his shoulders against the edge, the tangle of his dark hair hanging out of the tub. Blue eyes were half-closed in pleasure. The warmth of the water was seeping into every pore and muscle, the vapor licking kindly at his face. Yes, this was definitely something he had needed.

On bare feet the Warden padded behind him, coming to kneel on the ground. She pulled the wooden table closer to her, plucking the forest scented mixture she had smelt earlier from the selection, as well as the small ladle used for rinsing. Placing the bottle on the thick edge of the tub, the Warden's hands busied themselves with untying the braids that Loghain had at his temples. The hair fell thick and smooth through her fingers, wavy where it had been shaped and molded by the braid. She combed her fingers through it, untangling the windswept knots that had accumulated over their journey. She was surprised to find no mats in his thick mane. From temple to root her fingers worked, her fingertips brushing his scalp lightly.

She dipped the ladle into the water and poured it over Loghain's head, watching as his thick hair trapped the moisture. She did it again, watching his already dark hair turn a deeper black. She poured the vial of soap into her hands, rubbing them together and forming a rich lather. She worked it into Loghain's hair, massaging it in deeply.

Loghain pressed back against her fingers, feeling completely boneless and at ease under her tender, careful hands. It had been a long time since someone had done this for him. In fact, only Celia had done it for him, often as a welcome home gesture when he returned to Gwaren. She would come to him, dressed in a thin chemise, and bathe him. Her sleeves would be wet by the end, as would the neck of her thin gown, and the white fabric would have clung to her small breasts and revealed to him the pink of her nipples. Water had already splashed over the edge of the tub; no doubt, it was doing to the Warden what it had done to Celia.

A slippery hand touched his shoulder, urging him to sit forward. She ordered him to shut his eyes, which he did, feeling every droplet of water as it made its way over his head. It took several rinses for Loghain to hear a satisfied noise from behind him, and it was only then that he dared to open his eyes and settle back against the tub. Supple hands plucked hair from his face, smoothing it backwards over his scalp in long, slow strokes that tickled his neck and shoulders.

He felt her lean over his shoulder, felt the press of her breast band against the back of his neck, as she reached for the…razor and the foam. "I can do that."

"What?" the Warden chided, her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath against his cooling skin sent shivers down his spine, "don't you trust me?"

Loghain couldn't disagree for risk of offending her, that damn woman and the way she twisted her words. All he could do was tilt his head back and comply with her orders, resting his head against the arm she provided as a pillow. He felt her fingers glide along his neck and jaw, spreading the foamy cream liberally along his features. His own hands fumbled for the mirror that rested on the tray, holding it up for her to use.

"You shave men often, do you?" he asked, seeing the razor catch the light of the candles in the mirror's reflection. From the angle of the mirror and how she was leaning around him, he could see the sharp angle of her jaw and the proud jut of her chin. She was looking intently down at him, her eye fixated on the edge of the foam at his neck.

"I once," said the Warden gently, "beat Fergus so soundly in a duel that I sprained both his arms." She placed the edge of the blade against the skin, her free hand steadying his neck. "When my mother found out," she dragged the razor blade across his skin, hearing the hiss of the metal scraping away the stubble Loghain had grown, "she insisted that I wait on Fergus hand and foot. I," she chuckled, rinsing the blade in the water, "nearly took his head off the first time I tried. But since then," she again scraped the blade along his skin, this time curving it up along his jaw, "I think I have gotten much better."

Loghain only chuckled weakly in response, unable to find the right words to respond. Any other man, he thought, would have been terrified at this moment. The most powerful woman in Ferelden by all rights had a sharp blade very close to his neck. At any time, she could drag it across his throat and completely _end _him, and she would likely find some way to walk away innocently.

But he didn't fear death by her hand. The razor had scraped over his pulse, and he had felt his own heartbeat rise dramatically, but it was not from the presence of the blade. His heart thumped loudly in his chest every time her slim, pale fingers trailed along his newly shaven skin. They slipped over his neck, along his jaw, and up his cheeks in a maddeningly soft trail. Loghain could only look at the thoughtful expression she wore in the mirror, her thoughts guarded by the mask of serenity and languid motions she was demonstrating.

The Warden shifted her weight to her other leg, pushing herself to the other side of the tub as she moved to work on the other half of Loghain's face. In doing so, her hair had slipped over her shoulder and sent a wave of her smell across the water. For Loghain, the smell of woman now hung thick and primal in the air, absorbed by the vapors he was breathing in. It was heady; he had not _smelt _woman in a long time, at least not in such a setting as this. There was the _stench _of woman, and that he often smelt in the Landsmeet when the Banns and Arlessas tried to cover the stink of their greed with their heavy Orlesian perfumes. Yet, this was _fragrant. _ It was natural. He enjoyed the smell, so much so that he felt himself stiffening in response to the urgent call of need it awoke in him.

He was thankful for the way the shaving cream and the soap had settled along the top of his bathwater, obscuring all traces of his treacherous desire.

When she was done shaving, she dipped both her hands in the bath water and brought them up to his face. She rubbed away the remnants of the foam, marveling at how smooth Loghain's skin was. She had touched his face before, but had never taken a note as to its texture. Here it was just soft, and she couldn't help the way in which her fingers stroked and lingered along his chin and jaw line. She grinned at the sensation. So smooth! She found it enjoyable.

"Are you done petting me?" Loghain groused, tapping her hands away.

"Oh! Goodness, I'm sorry." The Warden gave an embarrassed chuckle. "I was just seeing how well I did."

"My head is still on my shoulders, isn't it?" he asked, rubbing his own fingers across his jaw to appraise her work. She'd done a good job.

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"Your bath water is probably cold by now. Best make use of what warmth there is left." Loghain placed the mirror back on the tray, using it one last time to give the Warden a stern look.

The Warden understood her dismissal, stretching her arms above her head as she stood. Crouching had caused a crick in her shoulders, but it had been worth it. It had been a surprising relief to share such an intimate moment with him, as it was helping her to sort out of her feelings from the Fade. This was an action she had _chosen _to do, and, as a result, the feelings that came from it were _hers. _ She did not have to justify them or rationalize them in the quiet hours before she slept. They were hers.

And she dwelled on them as she bathed, long after she had heard Loghain slip from the tub and pad back into his room. With her hair cleaned, rinsed, and hanging in a wet heap off the side of the tub, the Warden folded her hands across her naked belly and considered the curious puzzle of Loghain. She had decided, after much deliberation, that what had happened in the Fade was a projection of her desires. She had wanted a child, yes, but she wanted Loghain too.

The truth of the matter was that her body didn't lie. She cared for Loghain on a deeper level than just friendship, because when she came away from the domestic chore of shaving and bathing him, she had come away wet. Not just physically but…intimately. Touching herself, and even touching herself as she considered him now, she found her body to be quite willing to the idea of him as a lover. If she pretended her fingers were his, she felt her pulse quicken. If she imagined them to be his length pressing against her, she felt her insides tremor in anticipation at the invasion. She could grow slick just at the _thought _of it, and if the feelings weren't real, then she knew her body wouldn't reciprocate. But it _was_ reciprocating, that secret place between her legs proving without a shadow of a doubt it was real.

And that was comforting. Knowing that she could bring herself past the edge of bliss with his name on her lips not being an illusion was wonderful.

Her legs were boneless when she hauled herself out of the tub, and she struggled to keep her balance as she dried herself off with a small hand-towel. She slipped her tunic over her head, bent to pick up her boots and socks, and slung her breeches over her shoulder. She did not whistle for Dane to follow, as he was fast asleep on the couch. She shut her door quietly as not to wake him and in the light of the dying candles, readied herself for sleep.

In the other room, Loghain buried his sweaty face into one of the thick pillows of his bed. The covers of the bed lay tangled amidst his feet, and he felt the straw padding of the bed below him poking and scratching at the exposed flesh of his abdomen. But the painful prodding and itching did nothing to dampen the lust that had settled deep into his gut.

This was entirely inappropriate of him. What he had let her do was entirely inappropriate. She was too young, and the Maker knew that he was coming to the end of his life. To bind her to him and then to part from her so quickly was a cruelty that not even he could manage. But he wanted. He wanted to bind her to him, because she was a beautiful woman with a strength and quality that was unmatched in any other woman he had met…save one. And it was her charisma, her charm that kept him trapped by her side like some stupidly short-lived moth to a flame.

He ground his hips forward into the bed, feeling the padding below him sink and give way for him, the rushes scratching along his length. It could have been any other woman below him, and he wished that it was, but it had to be _her. _No matter what he did, Loghain could not escape her. He tried pressing deeper into the mattress, trying to bring forward other memories, of other women and lovers, but he kept returning to her golden curls and brazen smiles. And though he saw the echoes of another in her face, it was not the reason that she kept returning to tantalize his thoughts.

A fist clenched above his head and his body shook, tense and restrained. His lust was getting the better of him and there was no one to blame but himself. She was a perfectly innocent creature, who likely had no idea of the pain and longing she had caused. She had not intended for him to catch her bathing, nor had she insisted that he help her lace and unlace her armor as anything more than a friendly task. She had assisted him in the bath because she wanted to be his friend, not because she was trying to enthrall and ensnare him. She was completely innocent, blameless. He was the demon.

He had to admit to himself, and now as good a time as any, with his face pressed against a pillow and his hips pistoning madly against the mattress, that he was a dirty, lecherous old man. Teagan Guerrin had been right. His private accusations had rung true.

'Don't think that I haven't seen the way you look at her,' Teagan had said before they'd even left Denerim, as if he knew something that Loghain did not. 'Don't think that I don't know the thoughts in your head.'

Loghain had brushed the words aside, chalking it up to the youngest Guerrin's perverse obsession with Ferelden's Commander of the Grey. That Teagan had been jealous that Loghain got to spend every waking hour with her.

But what could Loghain say now? He was thrusting against some strange bed, trying to find the most desperate relief for the longing he felt. He grunted, clearly seeing in his mind the way his lips brushed against her milky white skin, memorizing each curve with his touch. Her sweat only served as an aphrodisiac that urged him on…but Maker help him, if this wanton image of the woman-child didn't want him too as she arched her back and cried out for him.

The thought was too much, and he found himself biting at the pillow to silence himself as release came hot and fast against his belly.

She was asleep in the room next door; it wouldn't do to wake her.

* * *

_Long chapter is long! The longest yet, if I do say so myself. _

_If you've been following the fanart, then you'll know that my wonderful beta Lady Winde has had the companion piece to this last Loghain scene drawn for quite some time! The link to it is in my profile._

_As always, thank you guys ever so much for reading! I'm always happy to have your feedback!_


	27. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Loghain had decided long ago that no matter what titles Maric bestowed upon him that he would always and forever be a farmer. There was absolutely no way he could be anything else. And, as he hung over the railing of _Shayna's Promise,_his hair being held back against the whipping wind by a very sympathetic Warden, there was no denying that he was not meant to leave Ferelden soil. His stomach was heaving and turning with the waves of the ocean, and he brought up what little remained of the light lunch he had eaten earlier. Out came the dried biscuit and salted pork, splattering against wood and wave crests.

He said nothing as the Warden murmured soothing sounds in his ear, because it felt ridiculous. He longed for dry land and steady legs, of a bed that didn't flip him upside down, of less salt and tar. Just because Gwaren was on the sea didn't mean it was _on_the sea. And Loghain was again not meant to be on the sea. In close proximity, yes. Digging his boots into the sand, yes. Digging his hands into wet, cracked wood, no.

"We're making good time to Orlais," called out Captain Brinley, standing at the wheel far above them.

"What does he mean by good time?" murmured Loghain weakly against the wind.

"Three days," the Warden replied quietly, "if the maps are right."

Loghain's insides heaved again and another wet splatter fell into the sea. "Just kill me."

The Warden only chuckled, her fingers tickling his scalp. "Shhh. We'll put you to bed for a few hours and then see how you feel."

"Not a babe," Loghain growled, his knuckles white against the dark wood. The sickness and the swaying had made the world spin.

"I did not call you one," the Warden said in a soft voice, "but if you are below, I can take care of both of my boys."

She was referring to Dane, who was, at that very moment, taking refuge between some barrels in the crew quarters. Getting Dane on the ship had been difficult. The Warden had initially blindfolded the mabari, promising him special treats and belly rubs if he just followed the sound of her voice. Dane had only managed to get as far as the pier before he had heard the cry of the gulls and realized what was happening. He had run back to the inn and taken refuge under one of the tables in the kitchen. What it had taken, in the end, was an expensive sleeping draught in a freshly baked meat pie and all of the Warden's strength. When Dane had eaten his meat pie and subsequently succumbed to sleep, the Warden had carried him (staggering) in her arms (painfully) to the ship.

And Dane had later awoken very scared and very mad. He'd bit the Warden's foot when he found her, growled at her, and had then proceeded to sulk in the darkest, driest corner he could find.

Loghain only grumbled something incoherent, wiping the back of his mouth with a shaking hand. His skin was pale and clammy.

The Warden let his hair fall back down his face and offered him her arm for support. He took it with a reproachful glare, leaning on her heavily as she brought him back below decks. Loghain was still a broad-shouldered man without his armor, but his weight rested comfortably against the Warden's side as she guided him to his hammock. She helped him sit upon it, steadying the swinging bed so that he could get settled. Her own hammock hung just beside his, though she didn't take to it just yet. She would in a few moments, if he needed nothing.

"Is there nothing," she asked, "that I can do for you?"

"No," he slung an arm over his eyes, lips drawn back thin and white against his face. "Unless its death."

"Not my gift to give you, brother." The Warden slipped into her own hammock, pillowing her head on her arms. "Not my gift to give."

Loghain's misery persisted through the rest of the voyage. Each day he spent in a nauseous stupor, drifting in and out of sleep over the course of the day. Dutifully the Warden brought him the meager ship rations, as well as thimblefuls of brandy to clear his mouth and head, though he could not stomach more than one or two bites and a tongueful of alcohol. His sickness abated the day they docked at Val Royeaux, where the winds did not rock the ship, and the waves were calm in the massive city's harbor.

The Warden was buckling on her armor as he pulled himself to his feet. His own armor sat nearby. "We've arrived," said the Warden, smiling at him. Her hair looked newly braided, as it now sat higher atop her head in a thick plait.

Loghain noticed that she hadn't replaced her eye patch, as he saw it hanging around her neck like a black noose. "Your eye patch," he said, touching just under his left eye for emphasis. Seeing her without it, he understood why she might wish to hide her injury. The eyelid hung too loose around the fake eye, giving her a lazy eye'd look or a perpetual squint. The eye itself was also unnerving, for even in the relative below-deck gloom he could see the grey smoke swirling about in the quartz orb.

The Warden's smile faltered as she struggled to fix her appearance. Fingers pulled the patch back up her face, settling it into position. The strap she pulled over her ears and into her hairline, settling it just below the curves of the vast snakelike braid that coiled around her head. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I would have hated to have left the ship in such a state of undress."

"We could not have you," he said, standing, "going about Orlais, and not blending in." He referenced their conversation from earlier, about how her eye patch and dirty fingernails would be all the rage.

"With these gloves," she held her gauntlets up for emphasis, "they'll never see my little fingernails."

Loghain chuckled, finding his legs wobbling when he tried to walk. It took him a few moments to get his bearings. He passed to the Warden's side, helping her slip on her breastplate. His fingers tickled her sides as he tied up the laces, and he could feel the heat of her body through the material of her shirt.

"Aren't you thoughtful," she teased, gloved fingers brushing his, "I didn't even have to ask you!"

"Madam, I am learning to wait on you, hand and foot," he retorted with a swift tug to tighten the laces, causing her breath to catch in her throat. "Oh, were you saying something?"

Her voice was positively droll. "Remind me to ask you to lace up my corsets."

The idea of the woman before him squished into a corset, tops of her creamy breasts peeking out from behind modest lace trim, was not…unappealing. His fingers shook as he slipped them gently down the protective leather covering of the laces. The idea soured in his mind when the image of the pretty young girl was suddenly accosted by a much older man with a ginger beard and hair. Teagan Guerrin tickled her sides just as he had, rubbing his pretentious facial hair all over the pale skin. "I don't fancy lacing you up to have some young stripling unlace you."

"Young stripling, is it?" She asked, turning her head towards him, though he was standing on her left and she could not see him directly through the eye patch. She could make out the shape of Loghain's face, the curve of his long hair, but his expression, which she wanted to see most, was lost to her. "And what makes you think that a young stripling can satisfy _me_? I am the Hero of Ferelden; do I not deserve men rather than _boys_?"

Loghain chuckled. This was the voice of the brazen woman-child that had been allowed to run free around Bryce's heels, the one with the arrogant slant to her lips and defiant glint in her eyes. "Pride cometh before the fall."

The Warden made a small sound of displeasure deep in her throat as she slipped her pauldrons into place, waiting for Loghain to fasten them. "I do not like," she said, her gauntleted fingers clicking together as she drummed them against her thumb, "men with soft hands. I tend not to trust them."

Loghain made quick work of the buckles. "I don't care what your preferences are." He was lying, of course. He cared very deeply about her preferences, if only to appease that part of him that had had been hidden for so long. She was like a warm fire, and he was but a man who had lived in the cold and shadows for too long. He did not think, however, that he could just be content with watching the flames this time. He wanted to feel that warmth, feel that heat on his skin.

He'd had a taste of the fire once, before he had resigned himself to winter. He thought that perhaps those slow burning embers in his memory would sustain him for the rest of his life, but he had been wrong. The ember had burnt out, faded away into dull, lifeless coal, and had taken all the warmth with it. Others had tried to relight the fire, fanning him with their flames, but no spark had been little. Better women had failed where this girl, a babe herself, was succeeding.

He gave her back a firm pat, feeling the metal of her breastplate heat below his hands.

"Do you like your women with soft hands?" This time it was the Warden helping him step into his armor, kneeling before him so she could fasten his leg plates. She asked her question as she knelt, face tilted up to look at his. She had spoken with a half smile on her lips.

Loghain could reach out and cup her chin with his thumb and forefinger if he liked, which he did. He caught it between the pads of his calluses, twisting her face gently left, then right, in appraisal. The Warden allowed herself to be moved in such a way, eye still on his face. "No," he said. He turned her face as far to the right as her neck would allow, forcing her gaze away from him. "I don't." He could see the delicate shell of her ear, the long column of her throat, and the edge of her finely tapered jaw.

"So you prefer your women with hard hands." The Warden pulled herself away from his hand, returning to the task of dressing him in his armor. "A worker's hands?" Her hands tickled behind his knee as she checked the security of the poleyn's fastenings. "Or a warrior's hands?"

The blood thrummed in Loghain's veins at the look she gave him, eye lidded and gaze smoldering. "It doesn't make a difference what makes ones hands hard." He watched her, fascinated by the diligent way in which she worked despite the gauntlets she wore. It slowed her progress considerably, leaving her hands to linger on the inside of his legs and tickle his thighs through the breeches he wore. Her hands continued to work up his leg, encasing him in his armor. She stood, bringing herself to eye level with him, helping him into the rest of his armor without a word. Loghain could feel the tickle of her breath on his neck as she worked on his breastplate, feel the scrapes and whispers of her armor against his.

"You look," she said, stepping back to admire her handy work, "just like a chevalier. Welcome to Orlais, Loghain, it will be you who fits in."

"They'll smell 'dog' on me from miles away. I'll never fit in," Loghain tightened one of the fastenings on his gauntlet. "I would offend their delicate noses."

The Warden leaned in to him, bringing her nose to the back of his neck. She tickled Loghain as she inhaled. The smell of the forest-scented oil still hung heavy on his hair and skin, though she could also catch the mingled fragrance of illness and stale air. "You don't smell bad to me." He smelt very _good _to her. He smelt like masculine pride and checked regrets.

"And you don't smell bad to me either," he replied, not having to smell her to know, "but _they'll _say that's because you can't smell the stink when you live in it."

She stepped around him, letting herself linger at the crook of his neck before she finally pulled away. "Speaking of the smell of dog," she placed her hands on her hips, "we have to coax Dane out."

"That shouldn't be difficult."

"He won't come to me."

Loghain raised a black eyebrow.

"I did have to drug him to bring him on board, remember?"

Loghain couldn't forget the hilarious sight of the Warden carrying the Mabari, clutching the poor dog to her chest. "Food is a good place to start."

"I tried that." The Warden sighed. "While you were sleeping."

Loghain turned to look at Dane's hiding place, seeing one large paw poking out. "Have you tried the direct route?"

The Warden cocked her head in confusion.

"Dane," he barked out sharply, so loudly that it felt to the Warden that the very floor shook. "To me."

Dane came when called, standing obediently before Loghain with his stumpy tail wiggling. His eyes closed when Loghain scratched behind his ears, tickling the sensitive skin often hidden away.

"I couldn't raise my voice at him. You were sleeping." The Warden gave Dane an annoyed stare, "that's cheating."

"It isn't a competition," replied Loghain with a smirk, giving Dane a final scratch of the ears before turning back to his companion. "Besides, I have practiced using that voice longer than you've been alive. I am allowed to be better than you at something."

"Better at raising your voice?" A wicked glint came into the Warden's grey eye. She hummed thoughtfully.

Leading their horses, the two Wardens and Dane bade the good Captain Brinley farewell. The horses nervously picked their way down the thick ramp that led to the dock, worrying against their bridles as the Wardens brought them step-by-step closer to land. It was only when the horses had their feet once more upon hard packed earth that they relaxed, allowing themselves to be mounted.

The port at Val Royeaux was packed with sailors, whores, merchants, and citizens: a massive sea of bodies engaged in commerce. Small wooden stands were littered along the hosts of streets that wound their way around the great port, and the shouting of merchants hawking the daily catch or their most valuable wares blended with the creak of wooden pier and snapping of boots on cobblestone.

Around them the buildings of Val Royeaux rose high into the sky, though none rose higher than the great spire of the Divine's Chantry. It rose higher than even the grand palace, which dwarfed even the high walls that surrounded the ancient city.

Loghain settled himself on Gharin's saddle, lifting his head to inhale deeply.

The Warden watched his behavior curiously, sitting astride Brake, her legs kicking in the saddle's stirrups. Her hands clasped the saddle horn as the sea breeze tickled her hair. "What is it?"

Loghain smirked. "It smells just as I thought it would." He caught her questioning stare. "Like piss. For all Orlesian pretenses, this place still smells like piss."

"Loghain, my delicate ears," chided the Warden, bringing her gauntlets over her ears for dramatic effect.

He grumbled something unintelligible in reply, glowering at the mass of people that were set before them. It was clear that Val Royeaux was a _large _city, and neither the Warden nor Loghain had a map. He didn't know which alternative worse: ask an _Orlesian _for help, or wander around the very _Orlesian _city. "Do you know where you're going?"

The Warden shrugged. She was smiling and was very much looking forward to exploring Val Royeaux. "I haven't the faintest idea." She gave Loghain a sidelong look. "I thought I'd ask for directions."

"You speak Orlesian?" Loghain raised a thick, black eyebrow at her.

The Warden brought her fingers up, holding them an inch apart from one another. "_Un petit peu._" She saw his eyes narrow and struggled to hold back her laugh. "I am allowed to know bits and pieces of other languages. Besides, I am sure someone here understands the common tongue."

"No doubt your father on his _many _trips to Orlais became quite _fluent._" Loghain looked sourly back towards the docks.

"He did not make _many _trips. And, at the very least," the Warden said quietly, trying to ignore the malice in Loghain's voice towards her father, "I can say 'Grey Warden.' That should be enough to get us where we need to go."

Loghain did nothing. He just stared out at Orlais, his mouth tight, as if daring each of the citizens and visitors to come look at him.

But as they started through the streets of the docks, how could the citizens _not _look? For sitting astride his huge destrier, and dressed in well polished (if not slightly antiquated armor), Loghain looked like every part the typical chevalier. When the sailors, whores, merchants, and citizens saw him approaching, they fled before him. The sea of people parted as he rode forward, and though they looked on him with a mixture of awe and contempt, they respected the sanctity of his presence.

The Warden rode slightly behind Loghain, having slowed Brake after seeing the fuss that Loghain was causing. Dane was dancing around Brake's hooves, making it perfectly plain as to who he belonged to. She had initially thought that the citizens were parting for _her, _that her description had come across the waters to this strange place of light and culture, that they knew her: the Hero of Ferelden. It was no great blow to her pride when she saw that their eyes were transfixed on the man with the dark face who rode beside her, and she had adjusted accordingly, watching in amusement as Loghain rode on completely ambivalent. It tickled her to think that chevaliers had complete and utter authority over the common folk; if Loghain wished to trample them, he could do so, and they would not dare to show their concern or correct their ignorance.

Truthfully, Loghain had assumed that the people on the roads were parting because they understood the power of a well-trained warhorse. He had no idea that they were scraping their knuckles on the stone, casting their eyes to the dirt, because they thought him to be some well-born tyrant. It did not help his case that the armor he wore had been taken from an actual chevalier.

Loghain realized that the Warden had fallen several paces behind him when they reached the massive arch that introduced them to a new part of the city. The sound of the docks and the crying of the gulls seemed so far away, smothered by the many-floored shops and apartments that had sprung up between them. He had no idea where to go, and she was obviously the superior linguist, so he had intended to let her lead. Yet, he had been so engrossed in his private, hate-filled mantra towards the country he was now standing in that he'd reverted to his old ways. No longer the subordinate, he had charged on ahead like a commander.

There were less people here, no crowds, and so Loghain allowed himself to relax, if only a little. He turned over his shoulder to look at the girl who was watching him with a faint expression of amusement. Her eyes were crinkled merrily, and the corners of her lips were twitching upward. "What is it?"

"Nothing," the Warden said, still smiling. "I was just enjoying the ride through the docks. It went smoother than I had thought…all those people!"

Dane barked to agree. There were many scents in the docks, some of which Dane had eagerly wanted to explore. However, his mistress's friend didn't like this place, and though he had tried to poison Dane, Dane did not want to get lost or make him angry.

"It was remarkably easy," Loghain nodded. "Did you see them bowing and scraping like chantry supplicants?" He turned back towards contemplating the arch before them. "Disgusting."

"The arch?" The Warden brought Brake abreast of Gharin, "I think it is quite lovely."

"No, the people."

"Oh, Loghain," the Warden touched a gauntlet to his arm, "surely you realize how you look to them?"

He stared at her blankly. "No. I don't."

"I said on the ship you looked like a chevalier." Her fingers gripped the edge his pauldron for emphasis. "And I meant it. They all thought so. Why else would they part?"

The thought chilled Loghain to the very core, and he denied it profusely. He did _not _look like a chevalier.

"Oh yes," the Warden said, now wearing a wide smirk, having read his thoughts through the way his eyes had widened, "you do."

"You're ridiculous sometimes," Loghain shrugged away her hand. "Besides, if they thought I was a chevalier, what did they think you were? What Dane was?"

The Warden let out a small hum of thought. That was indeed a good question. "I don't think any of them noticed me," she began, trying to put herself in the position of one of the people they had passed. A sudden idea struck her, one that sent a little shiver of warmth through her gut. "Perhaps they thought I was a spoil? A pretty young barbarian you had subdued in your adventures into savage lands? Old men with pretty young wives are quite common, even in Ferelden."

This idea did not seem to sit well with Loghain, who shifted uncomfortably on his saddle and cast his eyes to look anywhere, _anywhere, _except on the hopefully innocent girl beside him. Had he really looked like a conquering hero, leading his barbarian bride back to his bedchamber, intending to teach her civility and grace through nights of long, hard coupling? Would she learn Orlesian from the ways in which he took her, coming to mimic his cries and commands that he uttered to her in the deepest portions of the night? Would he make an honest woman out of her by pushing her firmly into his mattress, and filling her with his…no. No. _No. _The thought was shocking; he could not believe his mind was entertaining it. "And what is Dane then?" he growled, "a damnable fetish?"

Dane barked in protest. No, Dane was not a fetish. Dane was a mabari.

"You know those beastly Fereldans," the Warden's tone was light, trying to coax Loghain back towards her, "and how they love their dogs. You could not capture the barbarian princess without first winning the trust of her hound." If Loghain truly were a foreign conqueror, Dane would not have allowed himself to be won over, if it meant the integrity of his mistress was in danger. In this fantasy, however, the barbarian princess had been defeated honorably. She, like her hound, would submit to the man who had bested her in combat, bested her brothers and father in combat, perhaps even bested her entire tribe.

"Were I truly a chevalier," Loghain said, voice cold as ice and his eyes just as cold to match as he turned to stare at her, "I would have raped you and killed your dog while you watched, raped you again, and then killed you. And if I'd had any men with me when I found you, I would have given you to them and let _them _kill you. So do not think to wax on about what you think the peasants saw me as, or what you think they thought you were." His hands gripped Gharin's reins so hard he could hear the leather hissing and squeaking in protest.

He pinned her to the spot with that glare, and the Warden felt the flush of embarrassment, and of anger, trickling through the narrow expanses of her veins. She had not expected Loghain to react so…bitterly. She understood his past with Orlais, but his hatred just turned everything into a personal affront: be it from her father's visits, to her smattering of Orlesian, to her fanciful musings. She schooled her surprise into her veneer of calm, the only give away of her irritation being the crook of one eyebrow. She sighed and shook her head, pushing Brake forward with a kick of her heels.

Loghain watched her push ahead through the arch, not even turning to gaze back at him. He knew he had been wrong to snap at her, but there was absolutely no forgivable way he could respond positively to her glibness. Orlais had done so many terrible things to him, to his family, to his country. Who was she, with her charming smile and little touches, to suddenly take that from him? She called him a friend, her _brother. _ She should understand that those qualities that made him so favorable in her eyes were shaped by this bitterness and anger that he had borne all his life towards this one country. He would be damned if he gave it up for her, even if it did serve to drive a wedge between them. For every time he condemned Orlais, no doubt she was also condemning him for the loss of her family. She may have been a good woman, a _great _woman, but she was no pious, all-forgiving saint. She had to break at some point.

He nudged Gharin. He had to catch up with her, as she had ridden out of sight. Gharin picked his way through the streets with the same easy grace that he had along the docks, and though his rider was uneasy in this foreign land, Gharin was not. The destrier, unafraid and bold, trotted proudly for all to see. It did not, Loghain mused bitterly, help his case. It only made him look more like a chevalier.

He found the Warden quickly enough, catching her impressive height even while seated atop Brake. Her golden hair catching the rays of the sun and her armor reflecting its light, she appeared to be conversing with a street vendor. He approached cautiously, noticing the wares that the vendor sold were shiny, feminine things: combs, mirrors, rings, earrings. She _would _stop to ask directions here, of all places. He could also see Dane sniffing at the man's legs, his mouth coming up to nibble on a pouch the man had at his side. The merchant didn't seem to notice, too enthralled in his discussion.

He had approached close enough to hear fragments of their conversation. "_Les Garde des ombres_," he heard her say, and the merchant chattered back to her with a wide smile, pointing to an archway that lay on the other side of the district. The merchant, with his thick head of brown hair and strong jaw, reminded Loghain of one of the men he had lost at Ostagar. He had been a favorite lieutenant of his, and had been reluctant to assign the man the duty of leading the king's troops. Yet, he had not wanted to stack the battle outside of Cailan's favor, for he might have considered charging if the situation had proved correct. But it hadn't, and the man had died along with his king.

Loghain was brought out of his reverie by the glinting of light in his eyes. The merchant had a variety of wares that he was showing to the Warden, lifting them up on their soft, red pillows for her to examine. For her part, Loghain could see that the Warden was humoring the man. She would nod and appraise each of the trinkets he offered her, letting her eye dance over them before returning them to their places on the pillows. It was only when he presented a pair of hair combs that she hesitated in her praise and subsequent dismissal. Her hand came to her mouth to stifle the almost inaudible gasp.

To Loghain, the hair combs looked to be nothing out of the ordinary. They were quite pretty, with their long teeth and their gold handles. Tiny pearls studded the combs' length, their creamy countenance reminding him acutely of the Warden's bare skin. The combs were shaped like laurels, meant to be worn on either side of some elaborate hairstyle. Faintly, they reminded him of the Cousland crest.

"No," the Warden gave the man a pained smile and shook her head.

It was the only word Loghain understood of the exchange, for the merchant seemed adamant to sell her the combs after seeing the look of desire in her eyes. "When do I get my share of coin?" he asked, riding Gharin to stand beside her.

The Warden looked at him, grateful for the interruption. "When we're safely at the compound."

"Which is where?" Loghain looked to the merchant, who was furrowing his brow at having lost the sale. "I know he gave you directions."

"Not far, actually." The Warden gave her thanks to the helpful shopkeeper, wishing him many pleasant sales before leading Brake the way he had pointed.

Dane barked at the man, having found nothing in the man's pouch that was of interest, before he raised his great head, and barked at Loghain. "Where were you?" he seemed to be asking, tilting his head to the side and whining.

"I got lost," Loghain lied to the Mabari, not admitting that he felt as though he was losing his mind with his mistress. He noticed the way Dane's head reared back, as if in disbelief. He scoffed. "Not all of us have noses like yours."

Dane huffed, turning after his mistress and the swishing tail of her palfrey. Dane had great fun nudging the rather boring horse off course by knocking his head against the beast's flank. Brake was too subdued to try to kick at Dane to keep him away, and so let himself wander. The Mabari took satisfaction from the way the Warden scolded her wayward steed, not seeming to realize that it was Dane who was causing the trouble. Gharin was much more temperamental beast, and Dane did not try to tamper with the fussy destrier's course.

Loghain followed after Dane, tight on the Warden's heels as she pushed them through one district and then another until finally they came to what looked like a barracks. They had passed several of these small compounds on their way, the barracks hosting only some of Val Royeaux's military orders. Each of these compounds had been designated by a great wooden gate that ran as high as the walls did. In the center of the gate was a golden circle, and within the circle lay the standard of whatever order resided in the compound. For the templars it had been their flaming circle, for the Grey Wardens, it was the griffon.

It was different, Loghain realized, from the griffon that the Warden wore on her breastplate. She had two griffons side by side, each with a wing stretched wide. This symbol was but a lone griffon, clawing at the air. He wondered what the difference was.

"I suppose we should knock?" the Warden asked him. There was no other way into the compound other than, it seemed, the great gate before them.

Loghain shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, _Commander._"

The Warden knocked twice on the great gate.

A deep voice sounded from above, the accent thick and northern. "What is your business?"

"I am Aurora Cousland, Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden. The Second of Val Royeaux bade me visit," she called to the voice above, tone strong and clear as the chime of a chantry bell.

The sound of winches and chains whined from the opposite side of the gate, and slowly the gate slid apart into the massive stone wall on either side. It did not open far, leaving a wide enough space for the two Grey Wardens to ride side by side into the compound. Dane followed them in, tale swishing at all the interesting smells. Around them were tall buildings made of dark wood and stone and they could hear the sound of battle as they approached the central courtyard.

The Grey Warden compound was not so different from the other parts of the city they had passed through, save that it was far more martial and much less commercial. The great gate they had walked through was but one of four gates, it seemed, each being located in the center of the four massive walls that surrounded the compound. The architecture was the same, and the buildings were arranged in little, rectangular clumps to provide neat, orderly streets.

The long courtyard that stretched along a grand, grey stone building appeared to be a training ground. There were dummies and weapon racks, as well as men engaged in mortal combat with them. They grunted as they swung their heavy axes or thrust their little daggers into straw heads and bellies and paid the two newcomers no attention.

"The Blight is over," said Loghain, looking at the men curiously, "why would they still train?"

A voice, light and Orlesian sounded from behind them. "Are you sure about that, brother?"

The Wardens brought their horses about and found themselves staring at a pair of mages and a rather surly looking archer. At least, they assumed he was an archer from the grand bow strapped to his back.

"Yes," replied Loghain coldly, "I _am _sure."

The Warden who had addressed them chuckled. He was the taller of the two mages, and sported a mass of jet-black hair and quick brown eyes. His face was long and narrow, though not unattractive. His lips were full and heart shaped, and the curve of his jaw was pleasing, as was the straightness of his nose. "My sister has found no reason to disagree with your assumptions yet," he said, "though she is doing her best. It is unheard of for a Grey Warden to survive a killing blow to an Archdemon, but ah, where are my manners?" He touched a slender hand to his chest, "I am Serge. With me here is Alaric and Vidar. Vidar hails from the Anderfels, and Alaric is a native to your Ferelden."

Alaric had a broad, pleasant face, and a swarthy complexion. His russet-colored hair hung in a rough tangle to his shoulders, unlike the coiffed hair of Serge that was held tightly in a braid. His bright blue eyes were warm, though they seemed to chill when they looked upon the countenance of Loghain. "Welcome," he said, "to Val Royeaux. We're pleased to have you." His voice had not lost the erudite quality it had gained during his days as an apprentice in the Circle Tower.

Vidar said nothing. His shaggy brown hair, thick stubble, and unfathomably dark eyes betrayed little of his thoughts and less of his personality.

"Vidar does not speak much," Serge said with a slight sigh. "In all the years he has been here, always has he kept his tongue. The man is very restrained!"

"I'm sure," the Warden said with a small nod at Vidar, who did not return the gesture. "I am Aurora," she touched a hand to her breastplate. "And beside me is Loghain Mac Tir. At your left side," the Warden pointed to Dane, who had beset himself upon sniffing Serge's robes while the mage was occupied, "is Ser Dane."

"Well met, Ser Dane!" Serge extended his hand for the war dog to sniff, pulling back his sleeve obligingly as the dog's nose reached further. "Oh, your nose, my great big friend, it is wet and cold!"

"He certainly gets about quietly for such a big dog," Alaric mused. At Vidar's sudden grunt, Alaric laughed. "You're quite a big man for a woodsman, Vidar, and no one hears _you _coming."

"You don't know how to listen, that's why." Vidar's voice sounded like the scrape of stone against wood, a thick, organic sound that was rich and hoarse. His accent was less pronounced than the Northman who had let them in, but it lingered faintly in his deep tones.

"Are you giving lessons in how to listen, Brother?" the Warden asked, the words falling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. He was quite comely…

Serge's eyebrows rose, as did Loghain's, but Vidar merely shrugged in a non-committal fashion.

"Maybe," he said, looking at her from between half-lidded eyes.

Dane finished sniffing Serge and returned to the Warden's side, standing protectively between her and the _look _that Vidar was leveling her way. Men who looked at her that way, like Vaughan Kendells or Thomas Howe, were trouble. Dane could smell the reek of their insolence and their intent, and he was always the first to intervene on her behalf. Whether it had been relieving himself on the leg of Arl Urien's son or chewing on the boot of the Howe upstart, Dane had caused sufficient distraction to ruin whatever sort of 'moments' those men had in mind with his mistress.

"We should get you settled, yes?" asked Serge, settling himself back to his full height. The mage was quite tall, though Loghain was taller by far. "There are empty apartments that you can stay in. We always keep spare homes for our visiting siblings."

"How do things work here?" The Warden swept her eyes around the compound. "Do you go out into the city often? Do you have stables here? Who provides you your food?"

Serge chuckled. "The gates here are always open. You just chose to come through the closed one," he _tsked _playfully, "making poor Erik work for his keep up there, weren't you?"

The Warden shrugged helplessly.

"Here," Serge swept his arm out. "I shall give you the grand tour of the compound and then we shall get you settled, yes?"

Both Loghain and the Warden nodded.

"Alaric, Vidar," said Serge, addressing the other two Grey Wardens, "you're welcome to join us."

"We'd be pleased to have the extra company," the Warden offered them both an engaging smile, her light-hearted attitude contrasting sharply to the stony expression that Loghain was observing them all with.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Sister," said Alaric regretfully, "but I have some duties to attend to out in the city. I will perhaps see you for dinner?"

Serge nodded for him.

Vidar merely looked between the two Wardens, eyes roving around the Warden's figure before staring dully at Loghain beside her. He shook his head; his lips pulled back into something not quite a sneer, but certainly not a smile.

"Very well," Serge gestured with his hand that they were to follow him. "To the stables first, then the tour."

The Wardens picked their way behind Serge, leaving the other two Grey Wardens behind to tend to their business. They heard the brief snippet of a conversation as they rode away.

"You see, Serge," Alaric said, "I told you Duncan's letters were exaggerating. She seems quite nice, not at all cold."

"Don't bet your luck on it, mage," came Vidar's darker tones, "she probably runs colder than the Divine's bathwater. Forced _and _noble born. That's probably how she survived killing the Archdemon: no heart and soul to destroy."

Loghain saw the Warden wince at Vidar's comments. He had spoken loud enough for her to overhear them, and both of the Ferelden warriors were well aware of it. Loghain did not want to offer her the consolation: it was she, after all, who had wanted to be known as strong, capable, and without the luxuries of innocence. Part of that deal was that she was going to have to accept cruel jabs that came her way about her being heartless, for indeed it was alien for a man to think anything else of her. If a girl her age was _not _innocent, then what was she to be? She must be hard, cruel…cold.

It was a gross generalization, for Loghain knew she was not cold or without her sympathies. Yet, he had promised to not undermine her new image, and so he kept his mouth shut and watched her well-worn mask slip into place.

The Wardens stabled their horses in the rather luxurious stables at the far corner of the compound while Serge explained to them the nature of Grey Warden life at Val Royeaux. The compound was open to the city at all times from two gates, as the Grey Wardens were often entertaining and entreating with foreign lords and military commanders. Their compound, while part of Val Royeaux's military district, was also home to many shops owned by Grey Warden families.

When he mentioned families, the Warden had to stop him in confusion. Duncan had led her to believe that Grey Wardens renounced everything, while Riordan had hinted that Duncan had perhaps been exaggerating to help ease her mind. Serge had smiled sadly at the mention of his two friends, and had agreed with Riordan's conclusion.

"Grey Wardens," he said in fatherly tones, "can have families just as anyone else. There are many here who marry and raise children."

"Are those children expected to join the Grey Wardens?" Loghain asked before the Warden could, "it seems to me you might be spawning Grey Warden legacies."

"Some do," Serge conceded. "The children born here are very proud of their Grey Warden parent, and many do join us. We have one eighth generation Grey Warden; though I fear her line will end with her."

"Do Grey Wardens often marry other Grey Wardens?" The Warden reluctantly passed the reins of her horse to a smiling youth who patted Brake's nose gently and led him to a stall. She slung her saddlebag over her shoulder, watching as Loghain did the same.

"It does happen," Serge led them back to the courtyard, "though those unions do not prove fruitful. They are done more for comfort, than anything else. When the Calling takes you, I imagine it is nice to have someone in the darkness with you, no?"

This caused a wrinkle to appear in the Warden's brow, her eyes listing over to Loghain's strong features. Loghain would enter the Deep Roads alone. It was inevitable that he would feel his Calling before she did, and when he went it would be alone. The thought made her sad, for she realized that she would also face the darkness alone, if she did not take her own life first. There were things in the inky black of the earth that would seek to unmake her, twist her, and then reshape her in their image.

Serge gestured to several of the storefronts they were passing, indicating that they were run by wives or husbands of current Grey Wardens living within the Val Royeaux compound. There were several blacksmiths of varying trades, some grocers, as well as general and specialist merchants. There was even a tavern that Serge pointed out was popular with more than just the Grey Wardens.

"I highly suggest you take your meals at the Grey Griffon," he tapped on one of the wood pillars that held the building's second story aloft, "excellent food and company. Always a fellow Warden telling a tale or two."

Loghain watched a curious smirk spread across the Warden's features, but she said nothing, seeming to be lost in her own thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dane stalking a group of pigeons that were cooing atop a barrel. He whistled sharply, startling the birds, the Warden, Serge, and Dane. The Mabari came trundling back, while the Warden gave a polite cough and Serge ran a well-shaped hand over his hair.

Serge brought them to the Grey Warden armory and repository, telling them that should they need any weapons or armor that they could find them here if they did not wish to spend their gold at a blacksmith. He concluded their tour by pointing out to them the large stone structure that served as the Grey Wardens' command center. It was in the center of the district, dividing the central courtyard into four distinct training grounds. They had seen but two of the training grounds.

Truly, the Grey Wardens did not live in a barracks as the two foreigners once thought, but instead they were an actual part of Val Royeaux.

The Warden and Loghain soon found themselves standing outside what looked to be a tavern, but was really, Serge explained, an apartment for Wardens without families. Each of the eight residential sectors within the district had one large inn-like structure for Grey Wardens who lived on their own. Around these structures rose apartments and homes for Grey Wardens who had taken on the responsibility of having a family.

It was frowned upon, Serge explained, for Grey Wardens to live alone. Experience had found that kinship with one's brothers and sisters in arms helped make the Grey Wardens effective. They were all bound by darkspawn blood, and like the darkspawn themselves, the Grey Wardens derived some measure of comfort from banding together into groups. It was in their nature to cluster together into hordes, just as it was in their nature to seek their deaths underground. Grey Wardens who sought isolation were most often sick and did not last long above ground.

Loghain thought the entire notion was a sham. It was likely just easier to keep tabs on this lawless army if everyone lived together, as it had not escaped his notice that Grey Wardens seemed to be given a great deal of liberties for their behavior.

"Oh," Serge placed a hand on the Warden's arm, stopping her from entering the building, "when Andraste sent you here, what did she say to you?"

The Warden's eyes darted to Loghain's before they fell back into Serge's deep brown. "She said I should go to Weisshaupt, or at the very least Val Royeaux, to introduce myself and answer your questions."

Serge's fingers traced the decorative etchings on the plate of her upper arm. "Ah, Caron would have you see our Senior Warden then." He was close enough to the younger woman that he could smell the scent of her perfumed soap. "You will have to go to the palace."

"The Senior Warden is in the palace?" Loghain did his best to hide the scorn in his voice. "That is…indulgent."

"The Empress has given him quarters there," Serge turned a knowing gaze to Loghain. "Some are calling him her pet, but he has curried great favor for us."

"Oh," Loghain ground out, voice bitter and sour like a badly brewed spirit, "I am sure that it must be unbearable for him."

The Warden politely coughed, interrupting the flow of their conversation. "So you are not the first Senior Warden then?"

"Oh no," Serge shook his head. "Not I, Lady Cousland. I am a senior Grey Warden, just not _the _senior Grey Warden, though I run the compound in the absence of both Marcus and Andraste."

"And what are Alaric and Vidar?" she continued, "Are they senior Grey Wardens too?"

"No," Serge shook his head, "they are quite young, by all accounts. Could you humor this tired mage for a moment?"

The Warden's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "That depends…and only if you answer a question of my own."

"Of course. I just want your honest answers, that's all," Serge's gaze darted to Loghain's, "and you can answer too, if you wish."

Loghain shrugged.

"Why are you alive?"

"Oh," the Warden put a hand to her heart, "I wish that question would stop being asked. It makes me feel as though everyone wishes me dead."

"I do wish you were dead," Serge admitted, "ah, but that came out poorly," he managed to amend before Loghain's hands fell around his throat, "what I meant to say is that if you were dead, I might sleep easier knowing that our future is safe for another five hundred years. But I cannot sleep in such a fashion."

"Honestly," the Warden said in her most earnest voice, desiring to convince him so utterly that he might even speak on her behalf to his fellows, "I do not know _why _I am alive. I do know that I suffered a terrible injury in facing the Archdemon, and lay near death for many days."

Loghain put a hand on the Warden's shoulder, pulling her away from Serge's curious face. "You're supposed to feel the call of the Archdemon, aren't you?" he asked, interposing his body between them. "We're supposed to feel the Archdemon?"

"Yes," Serge nodded, "we do."

"I was told that if the Archdemon's soul was not destroyed, it would inhabit the body of another darkspawn. It would be awake and," he added pointedly, "it would be _alive. _ If it were alive, I'd still be hearing that irritating drumbeat."

Serge considered this, a hand coming to rest on the smooth contour of his clean-shaven cheek. "You speak sense, Loghain Mac Tir. I do not hear the song. I suppose," he offered the two Wardens and their war dog a wan smile, "that will have to satisfy me until my Caron finishes her investigation. And what was it you wanted to know?"

"The Joining ritual," the Warden put her hands on her hips, "I need to know how to conduct it. Could you make me a copy of it? Riordan took Duncan's, and I have no idea what he did with them."

"I can arrange to have a copy made for you," Serge replied amicably. "It is quite simple, really. A couple of drops of Archdemon blood and a little lyrium to sweeten it. Why, I suspect Ferelden has quite a _bit _of Archdemon blood, wouldn't you say?"

The Warden felt her good eye twitch in irritation. Archdemon blood? Lyrium? _That was it? _ She could have created a legion of Grey Wardens in the time it took to travel out here.

Serge noticed her expression, and laughed quite heartily at her dismay. "Oh, come, my dear. You would have had to have visited us at some point, and word says that the First Warden of Weisshaupt wishes to meet with you in person. Best to get your meetings out of the way early, yes? Come, do not look like that. It is not so bad!"

"I'm just tired from our journey," the Warden lied, "that's all."

"Then I will leave you two to get settled. Hopefully," the senior Grey Warden looked between them, brown eyes quick and precise, "you will stop by the tavern tonight and join us for a dinner and a story, yes? It would be good to mingle with your brothers and sisters, since I am sure it must be lonely just being the two of you."

Dane barked.

"Err," Serge looked down to the Mabari, "three of you."

"We'll be there," the Warden assured with a nod of her head. "I…_We_ look forward to meeting the others."

"Excellent." Serge's smiled widened. "You will want to speak with Coralie inside, and she will see you bunked appropriately." And with a small wave of his hand, he turned from the two Wardens and made his way back to the courtyard.

"Well," scratching Dane's head fondly, the Warden turned to the door. "Exciting."

"A Grey Warden pet," Loghain's face wrinkled in disgust, "our own order whoring itself out to the Queen of them all." He kept his voice low, so that only his companion could hear.

"You and I," said the Warden in an equally quiet tone, "can discuss strategy later tonight."

"You already know _my _strategy," Loghain put a hand to the door's wooden latch.

"All swords and no tongue, yes, yes," she pushed his hand away from the door.

"Please don't bring me tomorrow," he trapped her hand against the wood, looming over her shoulder to whisper in her ear, "please."

The Warden contemplated his nearness, of his solid presence hovering just a few inches behind her. His breath tickled the vulnerable expanse of nude skin at the back of her neck and rustled the underside of her hair. She was tempted to agree, if only because he sounded so sad. But turning to look at him, her lips hovering close to his, revealed no sadness or regret in his eyes. All she saw was the bitterness of his years reflected in the blue, the bitterness that could, at any moment, turn on her and cut her to the quick. "I will think about it tonight," she responded, turning back to the door and pushing it open.

She stepped inside, Dane following just behind her, and Loghain had no choice but to clench his jaw and obey.

* * *

_Next up: the Landsmeet Part II. And then we get to meet more Grey Wardens and watch tensions rise. (I may have lied to you, Windchime. We'll see!)_

_Many thanks go to Lady Winde for being a wonderful muse and beta, as well as Buzz who is a great sounding board for ideas (even if you do think we need more cameras). _

_Lots of love to readers new and old who are joining us! Your reviews and alerts are inspiring, as I do so love reading your thoughts. _


	28. Interlude VII

**Interlude VII: The Landsmeet Part II**

_When the Warden and Riordan returned to Arl Eamon's estate in the grey hours of the morning, the sight of the great wooden gallows surprised them. The hangman's noose was already in place, waiting for a neck to slip through it. Servants were busy trying to cover the structure with large pieces of cloth, stretching them out along the sides to give the appearance of a tent. _

"_It seems Arl Eamon has been busy and doesn't want someone to know," Riordan said quietly in the Warden's ear, laying a hand on the small of her back as they walked. "Those gallows will not remain empty for long."_

"_It's for the Teyrn," she replied grimly, realizing now what Eamon's business was yesterday. "That would explain why he, Teagan, and Alistair were in conversation for so long. They mean to hang him."_

"_And he doesn't want the Queen to see it. You will have to work swiftly," he advised, "if you want to make him a Grey Warden. They will not give you much opportunity to be alone with him, if any." The hand on her back rubbed gently before sending her forward to the side entrance of the estate. "Come, Warden Commander, we should get you prepared."_

_She raised an eyebrow at the title. "You mean we should get in quickly before anyone spots us." The Warden stared meaningfully at Riordan's wrinkled clothing and uneven braids. _

_He smiled widely at her, the dark stubble of his jaw making the blue of his eyes more pronounced. "Servants will always talk." _

_The Warden led their way back into Eamon's home, relishing in the warm rush of air against her cheeks as they passed through the kitchen. The morning was cold and clear, and had numbed the tip of her nose and the tops of ear ears. She could feel the tingling of the skin as blood rushed back to the chilled areas. She was feeling rather anxious about the upcoming confrontation, and so was feeling a bit bloodless. Spending time with Riordan had bolstered her confidence, but she found it waning again with each step she took. Perhaps the biggest dampener on her spirit was the presence of the hangman's noose outside. Not only would the Warden have to compete against Loghain, but she would have to fight time too. _

_She had suspected that Eamon would execute Loghain, but she did not assume he would do so immediately. If he did not intend to execute Loghain that day, or at the latest the next, he would not have gone to the trouble of constructing his own gallows. There was no mistaking which neck that lone rope belonged to. Of course, Eamon was completely justified in constructing the thing. Loghain would hang, because Eamon would accuse him of regicide and treason. When the Landsmeet went to vote, they would cast their lot with the Arl of Redcliffe. _

_She knew this because she had made certain of it. _

_Every Arl and Bann called to Denerim by Eamon had been visited by the Warden at least once. She had gone to their estates, spoken to their servants, chatted with their children, and pandered to their lovers until she had gained entry. Being the daughter of Bryce Cousland was not enough to win their trust, and she had done more tricks than a mabari to persuade them to vote the way Eamon would. _

_Some were persuaded easily. _

_Arl Bryland of South Reach had been quick to convince, since he had the common sense to agree with her that a civil war in the middle of a Blight was perhaps one of the stupider things Loghain had ever done (the stupidest thing Loghain had ever done, Bryland explained to her, was to allow Maric to take that damnable ship.). "Dear girl, you remind me so much of your father," he had said. "It is good that Eamon has placed his faith in you, Teyrna." Her meeting had taken less than ten minutes. _

_Arl Wulff of West Hill had been hesitant, not wishing to endanger his people any further by angering Loghain. His Arling was suffering badly due to the Blight, and he had lost many men to the encroaching darkspawn. He was counting on Loghain's support for troops to help him clear the area, but none had come. It had been easy to make him see that Loghain did not intend to send any. "But I will," the Warden said, "stop the Blight and restore your lands. I will see the Arling of West Hill saved." At her promise of aid, he promised to stand behind her. _

_Bann Alfstanna of the Waking Seas had been indifferent. She was too concerned for her family to worry about the petty squabbles of the kingdom. Her husband was ill and her brother had gone missing while hunting an apostate. It was by happy chance that the Warden found her brother, and so was rewarded with the Bann's allegiance. The Warden was finding that she had a knack for doing things that others might consider impossible, even if she hadn't mean to do them. Alfstanna's brother had, quite literally, fallen into her lap as she was traipsing around Howe's dungeon. _

_Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak hated Rendon Howe with everything he had, the Arl having imprisoned and tortured his son. He hadn't actually realized how much he hated Rendon Howe until his son had returned to him with grave injuries, and he had made a solemn promise to the Warden to stand beside her in whatever course of action she might take. "And you can have Oswyn," he insisted, "Fine, strapping boy, even if he may never walk again." The Warden had declined his marriage proposition. _

_Bann Reginalda of the White River Bannorn had been romantically linked to the widowed Bann Sighard for some time, and so when it was that Sighard explained to her the political turmoil, she had no other choice but to cast her lot in with the Warden. She had sent a small letter with her handmaiden to Arl Eamon's estate, explaining her intent to vote in whatever manner Eamon saw fit. _

_The newly appointed Arl Vaughan Kendells had also been rescued by the Warden in the dungeons of Howe's Denerim estate and was very amenable to the idea of upsetting Loghain. His family had, like the Couslands, suffered because of Loghain's "negligence." Howe had run amok, eliminating all noble families that stood in the way of his quest for power. The Kendells had been "removed," and Vaughan imprisoned. He had vowed to stand behind her, "if only to admire the view from the rear." _

_Bann Esmerelle of Amaranthine City had initially refused to support the Warden, as she feared that Loghain would not honor the late Rendon Howe's ridiculous promises to her. When the Warden had assured her that all the promises would be honored even with Loghain out of power, the Bann had agreed to support her. _

_Bann Lisabeth of Lothering, like Bryland, had not taken much convincing at all. She had seen firsthand the dangers of the Darkspawn, and had barely made it out of Lothering with her household alive. A pious and vengeful woman, she was very willing to make Loghain pay for bringing her territory to its knees. She was yelling furiously at the spires of Castle Denerim when the Warden left her estate. "Where were his troops then?" She stood on one of her grand balconies, pointing a finger accusingly at the castle. _"_Where were you, Teyrn Loghain, when they raped my chantry and killed my Revered Mother?"_

_However, others had not been so quick to turn. _

_Bann Draycut of River Dane thought he owed everything to Loghain: his life, his freedom, his land… He was a young, idealistic man who had inherited his father's title upon the man's sudden death. He refused the Warden outright, coming to meet her at the gates of his Denerim estate, and shouted loudly into the street that he loved Teyrn Loghain and would support him to his dying breath. He'd then drawn his sword and poked it at her through the gate. "I'm going to tell him about what you asked me to do today, cowardly traitor!" She had no doubt that he did tell Loghain everything. _

_Bann Mayfaire of Oswin had been a tiring affair, one that had required the Warden's legendary patience. He had not been friendly with the Warden's father, and had not been friendly with the Warden herself. He had served her tea, given her some biscuits, and then pleasantly explained that he knew her reasons for coming. "But I'm not going to switch sides so late in the battle, girl." His smile had been as venomous as the tea he had given her. _

_When she had recovered from Bann Mayfaire's treachery, she went to see Bann Ceorlic. But the Bann of Westhills hadn't even opened his gates to her. She had caught him on the street later that day, but he had refused to look her in the eye. The Warden called him a coward, which rattled the old man's nerves enough that he drew his sword against her and chased her around the marketplace with his guards behind him. Only the timely arrival of Sergeant Kylon and Bann Teagan had stopped the Warden from climbing up the awning of Wade's shop to escape. _

_It unnerved the Warden (as she rarely did anything in halves) that she would be unable to walk into the Landsmeet with a complete vote against Loghain. 'Twas true, she did own the majority of the votes and that was enough to throw things in Eamon's favor, but she would have preferred a full sweep. This was not because she was a perfectionist, but because she did not want to fight the Teyrn of Gwaren. _

_Loghain was a legendary strategist and an excellent swordsman. He was the Hero of River Dane. He had a lifetime of experience behind him to guide his blade. The Warden was also a strategist, but she was less than half his age and had only a fraction of his worldliness. If they met in single combat, Eamon would be scraping her from the floor. There was an unbearable weight on her shoulders; the fates of Ferelden and her friends could rest on the blade of her sword. If she failed and Loghain won, then all was lost. _

_She had hoped to avoid this scenario by completely crushing all of Loghain's pillars of support. It was Sten who had suggested the idea, and it was something she had championed from the moment she'd entered into her country's capital. She needed every possible advantage to cripple Loghain's resolve, to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind so that he would step down without a fuss. _

_Sten had proposed that she look for other ways to break Loghain beyond the nobles. "Ferelden has no money," he had stated pointedly. "Armies need money. Find the source of your Teyrn's wealth, and he'll break like water on the rocks." _

_"And the Chantry," Leliana had suggested, "people need faith. You should try and convince the Chantry to turn from Loghain." _

_The Warden had done both of these things. The Tevinter slavers had been sent away, and Loghain's complicity in aiding a blood mage and interfering with templar duties had been documented and sent to the Revered Mother herself. The confessions of both Shianni and Jowan would have made the evidence damning beyond reproach, but the elven girl Shianni had refused to speak to anyone other than Zevran, and Isolde had executed Jowan as soon as he'd helped free her son from the clutches of a desire demon. _

_She had to hope her efforts were enough, for if Loghain was going into the Landsmeet with confidence then a fight was inevitable. _

_She was wearing her concern on her features when she entered her chambers, Riordan at her heels. Both Leliana and Zevran were there waiting. Leliana was reclined in the Warden's unused bed while Zevran was stalking about the room in his fine, Antivan boots. _

"_Are we interrupting something?" Leliana smiled knowingly. Her pretty face had been painted in subtle pinks and rouges, and her hair was braided away out of her face. She would have looked like another woman if she stopped smiling. _

"_Err…" the Warden cast a glance over her shoulder at Riordan, who was grinning shamelessly. "No." She turned back to her two spies, the smirks they shared not going unnoticed. "Stop it." _

_Zevran held up his hands. "I didn't say anything." _

_Riordan interrupted smoothly before the Warden could big to differ. "I was going to help your commander get dressed for the day," Riordan gestured to the Warden's armor that sat gleaming and well polished against a chest at the foot of her bed. "It is the least I can do, for I have been most unhelpful."_

_Leliana chuckled; her musical Orlesian tones were a counterpoint to Riordan's much deeper lilt. "What would Teyrn Loghain say if he saw you now, Aurora? Surrounded by foreigners!" Always having a flair for the dramatic, Leliana pitched her voice deep, "Orlais and Antiva have invaded!"_

"_Send all men to the palace to protect the Queen!" Zevran hopped lithely atop a chest of drawers, his shiny boots not making a sound against the wood. The Warden had bought him those boots, just as she had bought him the soft, supple gloves he wore. _

"_But if we send all the men to the palace, there will be no one left to guard the walls!" Leliana protested, throwing her hands down on the straw mattress. "The city will be defenseless! The strength of Ferelden is in its sturdy soil!"_

_Zevran pointed a finger at her accusingly, flipping his sandy blonde hair over a shoulder. "The strength of the nation is in its queen! Such traitorous words, Orlesian strumpet!"_

_The Warden shook her head. "I have a hard time imagining him saying that." _

"_Oh, but you don't hear the things I do." Zevran smirked, hopping once more back to the floor now that his performance was over. "While you have been busy doing your Grey Warden things," his eyes flicked to Riordan, "or courting nobles, Leliana and I have been gathering information."_

"_And what have you found me?" The Warden stalked to her armor, gently moving it to the bed so that she could get to the trunk where her clean clothes were. She knelt, flipping up the clasps that held the oak trunk shut. _

"_The Teyrn intends to fight you," said Zevran softly. He loomed above her, looking in at the small amount of clothing the Warden had. He spied two tunics, three smalls, two pairs of socks, and a pair of leather breeches, all in varying shades of grey, red, and blue. _

_The Warden bowed her head, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Tell me exactly what he said." _

_Zevran flicked his eyes up to Leliana, who was perched on the edge of the bed watching the Warden work. Leliana nodded at him, and he explained, "He was conversing with one of the Banns who refused to meet your terms. Fairman, was it?"_

"_Mayfaire," the Warden replied, eyes fixated on a thick, black knot that marred the wood on the inside of the chest. "He was speaking with Bann Mayfaire."_

"_That was the one that tried to poison you, yes?" asked Leliana. Leliana had been the one who had attended the poor Warden and her distressed stomach after the nasty trick with the tea. _

_The Warden nodded. _

"_You might be happy to know," Zevran laid a hand on her shoulder, leaning down to catch a look at her face, "that the Teyrn was not happy about the poison. He was, ah, how would you say it? Disgusted. He said it was, and I quote, 'a disgraceful, shameful act.'"_

_Leliana snorted. "The Teyrn is such a funny little man, isn't he? He was the one who decided to send an Antivan Crow after you." _

_The Warden shook her head. "I think that was Howe's doing." _

_Riordan agreed coming to sit on the bed just slightly behind the Warden's mass of armor. "Loghain is far too honest in his dealings to resort to poison and assassination. It is only himself that he lies to."_

_Leliana flicked her gaze down the other Orlesian's form, admiring the aquiline nose and strong cut of his jaw. "Aurora," she smirked, "are we keeping him? He is so delightful." _

_The Warden ignored the bard's attempt at flirtation. "Continue, Zevran." _

"_Well, he said that Bann Mayfaire had acted very poorly, 'discrediting him,' and all that noble nonsense. I always find poison to be a noble choice of death, but that may just be me." Zevran shrugged at Leliana, who was nodding at him in agreement. "Anyway, he said that tomorrow he would have to face you in combat. I think he wants to make an example out of you. Me, personally, I would have stuck to the poison, since facing you in armed combat never seems to go very well for the challengers, eh?" _

_Scrubbing her hands over her face, the Warden returned to the task of choosing fresh clothing. "I suppose he wants to make an example out of me to break our resolve. I'm using the same tactic on him, except he doesn't have to swim through an ocean full of troubles to achieve his goal. He only needs to defeat me to win."_

"_You could consider it an opportunity," Riordan said slowly. "It gives you an excuse to be close to the Teyrn." _

_Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Why would she want to do that?"_

"_I have," the Warden stood, pulling with her the items she had chosen for the day, "a personal question to ask the Teyrn of Gwaren." _

"_Do you want to share?" purred Zevran against her shoulder. _

_The Warden shook her head. "No. Now get out, all of you. I need to make myself presentable. I'll come out into the hallway and get you when I'm decent and ready for you to make me into a Warden Commander." She shooed them out of her room. _

_It took the Warden longer to get dressed than usual, as she made liberal use of the wash basin the servants had left her. She slipped out of her deftly laced corset, tunic, and pants without much of a fuss, running the washcloth over her naked body in an attempt to sponge out her fears. As goose bumps settled on her skin, she stepped into her smalls and began binding her breasts. She wrapped them to accommodate her armor, running the band over her shoulders and between the valley of her breasts to make sure that her delicate skin wasn't pulled in odd directions. The leather pants slipped on easily after her socks, and the red tunic hung loose over her frame. _

_She went to the door, pulling her hair from its braid so that she could rework it into her affectionately named "combat coils." She jimmied the handle, letting the door fall open, while her other hand massaged at her scalp. Leliana, Zevran, and Riordan all stood lined against the wall like suitors at a ball. In the time it had taken the Warden to get ready, Riordan was dressed in his armor and sporting a fine air of something woody and spicy. "Truly, I am the luckiest woman in Ferelden to have such fine individuals waiting to enter my boudoir."_

"_Your accent is adorable," Leliana's round and rosy cheeks had a tendency to obscure her eyes when she smiled, giving the woman a delightfully girlish expression of joy. _

"_You are a Fereldan in Orlesian clothing," the Warden countered, letting her companions back in. "As are you, Senior Warden," she clapped Riordan on the shoulder as he passed her. _

_The four of them teased and mocked one another as they dressed the Warden for her day's activities. Zevran and Leliana were already outfitted in their armor, having never foregone the safety of their leathers while in the city of Denerim. As Leliana and Zevran helped fasten the Warden's leg plates and greaves, Riordan helped her slip into her breastplate. His fingers worked quickly and efficiently at the ties and straps of the armor, fastening it with far less fuss than Alistair could ever manage. _

_In fact, it amazed the Warden that they were all quite good at getting her into this heavy plate that she so often struggled with on her own. She guessed that they would be equally as good at getting her out of it too. _

_The Warden's pauldrons came next, and while Riordan settled them into place, Leliana and Zevran fastened her gauntlets into place. Leliana set about the task of braiding and setting the Warden's hair when Riordan moved away, and Zevran secured her tasset and utility pouch. _

"_Not a chastity belt," he whispered, "thank the Maker." _

_Heat crept up the Warden's neck. _

_Riordan handed the Warden her sword belt and shield. "Your weapons, lass."_

"_Thank you." She regarded the three people standing in her room with a mixture of affection, thanks, and regret. "I do not deserve any of you." The Landsmeet was playing on her nerves, and she had the sinking feeling that she might never see any of them again. _

"_No, no, no," Zevran put a finger to her lips, "you are not allowed to give speeches like that. I will not allow it."_

"_I am allowed to express my thanks," the Warden batted his hand away. _

"_You're worried, aren't you?" Leliana placed a gentle arm around the Warden's waist, "about the Landsmeet?"_

"_I can't say," the Warden allowed herself to be led out of her room and to the common area, "that I am looking forward to it." The shut of her chamber door echoed with a strange sort of finality behind her. _

"_Looking forward to what?" asked Alistair, entering the common room with a piece of bread half-stuffed into his mouth. He came to stand beside Wynne, who was trying to ignore Dane's attempts at affection. _

"_The Landsmeet," the Warden gave him a smile, "I am looking forward to it." _

"_Oh, I'm not." Alistair pushed the rest of the bread into his mouth, chewing loudly at Dane, who had noticed the food and now had his tongue out waiting for some. "Nooooo, you can't have it. I ate it, it's mine now. You'll just have to go find your own apple bread, won't you?" _

_Dane barked. _

"_Must that mongrel be so loud?" Morrigan entered from the library, rubbing her temples. "All morning he has barked and worried away on the furniture. It has been most distracting." _

"_Did he wake you up?" asked the Warden with a raise of her eyebrow. _

"_Interrupted my reading, is more appropriate. 'Tis mother's grimoire. It requires a great deal of concentration." She patted the black book that hung on a strap by her side. _

"_You know, I thought I was up early." Alistair stretched as best as he could in his armor, "but it seems like everyone was up before me. Do you know how nice it is to have other people put on your armor for you? It's great!"_

_Zevran, Leliana, and Riordan all smirked at the sudden way in which the Warden ran a gauntleted finger over her jaw. _

"_Yes," she said, "I imagine that must be nice." _

_The Warden surveyed her companions, noticing two still absent. "Where's Oghren? And Sten?"_

"_The dwarf is," Morrigan cringed, "rutting with a piece of roast pork."_

"_I don't think one can rut a roast pork," though even Wynne's tone was hesitant as she spoke. It was Oghren. If he could figure out a way to couple with food, he would do so. "And Sten is meditating, I believe." _

_Sten had the curious habit of staring at his sword for hours. It did not matter where he was or who was watching. He would lay Asala on a piece of cloth at camp, sit before her, and stare down at her, as though he could see straight through the blade. Everyone supposed that it was his way of clearing his mind, of becoming one with his blade. What Sten was actually doing, no one had dared asked. He ignored all of their chatter and all their comments when he assumed his blade-watching ritual, and had never answered any questions about it. _

"_I will get Sten," the Warden said with a sigh, "if someone else gets Oghren." The task fell to Wynne. _

_Oghren had been easy to coax away from the leg of roast pork he had stolen from the kitchen. Last night's dinner had lingered on his lips, flirting with him as he tried to sleep. All night it tormented him, and when he awoke, he realized he needed some of the crispy pork fat to slake his lust. When Wynne had entered, Oghren had made obscene licking gestures at her, running his tongue along the rim of the pork leg and then dipping it between the skin and the crackling. Wynne had slapped the back of his head, not amused with his playfulness. Still, Oghren understood the severity of the situation, and had come away from his pork leg without too much fuss. _

_Sten had been harder to track down, but the Warden eventually found him in the armory. He was indeed sitting before Asala, though his gaze was transfixed on the wall of swords before him. "Shanedan," she said tentatively, hoping that her accent was correct. Sten had been so tight-lipped about the Qunari and their ways that it had been hard to wrangle out the proper way to greet him. She'd eventually learnt the word from Leliana._

"_No wonder Fereldans fight so poorly," he said in his soft, stoic tones. _

_"Oh?" The Warden lowered herself to kneel beside him, her pauldron gently scraping against the ill-fitting mix of armor he wore. "What makes you say that?"_

"_Your blades are poorly made, for one."_

"_Ah, your delightful sense of humor." The Warden chuckled, having long since lost the need to feel offended by the Qunari's words. "Thank you, Sten. And what is reason number two?"_

"_Completion," he replied simply. "You lack completion." _

_The Warden watched the way his strange eyes danced along the blades that must have looked weird and foreign to him. "Those swords look very lonely up there, don't they?"_

_Sten said nothing. _

"_Perhaps not as lonely as the men without them." The Warden watched for a reaction in Sten's face, but he was as good at hiding his emotions as she was. "We cannot all be as lucky to have a blade that makes us whole." _

"_Parshaara." Sten stood. It was a fluid motion, from the way he raised his knees to the powerful tensing of his leg muscles. For a big man, Sten was as nimble as water. Asala was in his hands and then in her scabbard just as quickly. He turned to face her, looking at The Warden with his usual unfathomable expression. _

_The Warden returned his expression, canting her head slightly to give him permission to speak. She found that actions often spoke louder than words with Sten, and that he was more apt to respond to physical cues than spoken questions. She suspected it came from his entrenchment within the highly collectivist Qunari society. _

"_This Teyrn Loghain, what are you going to do with him?" _

_It took the Warden by surprise. Sten rarely asked direct questions of her. Rather, he often skirted around topics, forcing her to bring up the question he had on his mind. "I'm going to talk to him." _

"_You are certain." Sten raised a pale eyebrow. _

_The Warden nodded, keeping her silence. She forced Sten to take the next step. _

"_You will fight him." The Qunari gave a cursory glance around the armory, barely hiding his disdain at the swords shelved along the walls and on the racks. _

_She nodded again. "Yes." _

"_Good." _

"_We will," the Warden pitched her voice low, hoping that she sounded braver and more confident than she felt, "use the tools given to us."_

_This earned a grunt of approval from Sten, who flicked his eyes towards the door in a gesture that meant he would like to leave, if given her permission. The Warden inclined her head again, acknowledging the request. Together, the two made their way back to the common room, and found not only the rest of their companions, but Eamon, Teagan and Anora. _

_Teagan looked very handsome in his finely crafted light armor, the deep green and bronze-color of the plate's coating emphasizing the brightness of his eyes and hair. Eamon was dressed in his courtly finest, though the red and black silk of his suit were a poor compliment to his graying hair and haggard appearance. Anora looked radiant, her gown of golden, shimmering cloth catching all the light of the candles. She looked every part the Queen of Ferelden and Loghain Mac Tir's daughter, from the strong curve of her nose to the hard line of her jaw. _

"_The heroine of the hour," Teagan said, clasping the Warden's upper arms with a gentle familiarity. "We nearly sent Alistair to find you." _

"_I was only gone for a few moments," the Warden accepted Teagan's embrace with a faint smile. "What was so urgent?"_

"_We need to review our points today," Anora's slim hands curled themselves around each other, a habit she displayed while deep in thought. "My father will be ready to counter many of your arguments."_

_The Warden frowned. "Does it matter if he counters them? I thought we had already secured a vote?" _

"_Well, I would like to review our evidence anyway," the Queen tossed her head back, sending her long, silky locks tumbling. _

_The Warden raised an eyebrow at Eamon, who nodded his consent. With a firm voice, the Warden explained the situation at the alienage, and how Loghain had been selling the elves into slavery to fund his war efforts. She also counted off the nobles' long list of grievances against Loghain, as well as the Revered Mother's displeasure at Loghain's interference with a templar's duties. Eamon could make his own case about Loghain's poisoning of him. There was also the matter of Arl Howe and the Blight, the two forces in Ferelden that had been the source of more deaths than the Orlesian occupation. _

_Anora seemed satisfied by the evidence, nodding her head as each point was made. All the while, she twisted her delicate little fingers. "And when you are done making these points, Warden, I shall endorse you. I shall be queen, and you will show mercy on my father."_

_The Warden saw Alistair's lips twitch, though he was standing out of Anora's line of sight, and so she could not see the insolent curl of his smile. "Yes," the Warden agreed. "I will show mercy." _

"_Eamon," Anora placed a hand on the older man's arm, "I am satisfied." _

_Chantry bells were ringing outside, and had rung two times since the Warden had returned to the estate. _

"_Your majesty," Eamon gently placed his hand over Anora's, "we should probably make our way to the Landsmeet. Warden, I expect you there before the bells ring again. Settle your nerves and make sure your companions are ready. There is no telling what Teyrn Loghain might do." _

_The Warden only tipped her head in acknowledgement, watching the two Guerrins and the Mac Tir leave. _

_Wynne placed a consoling arm around the Warden's shoulders, the older woman fitting easily into the curve of the Warden's side. "You are very brave. You have already won this day." _

"_Thank you," the Warden ducked her head, "I hope so, for all our sakes." She addressed the motley assortment of men and women who had remained with her through all her tribulations, "is there anything anyone needs before we go? Breakfast? You all ate, yes? It is going to be a long day. I wouldn't hold it against you if you went back for seconds." Seeing no replies to her queries, the Warden stretched out an arm to the hallway. "Time to go then." _

_By the time everyone had made their way outside, Arl Eamon's carriage had already departed. They would be making their way to the castle on foot. _

_The Warden took point, letting her companions fall into step behind her as she led them dutifully to the palace. _

_Alistair was smiling as he passed the tarp-covered gallows. "I wonder how Eamon convinced Anora not to look under the tarp."_

"_The more important question to ask," added Zevran, "is how Anora did not learn of the gallows from the servants. Servants always talk!" _

_The morning sun had not dissolved the grey clouds in the sky, and a long shadow was cast over the city of Denerim. Was it prophetic, the Warden wondered, that the sky would match the color of her new order? Did it signify that a new brother would be joining them shortly? She dwelled on this as the castle came ever closer. _

_The way to the palace was filled with people. The commoners had heard the news that Arl Eamon had summoned a Landsmeet, and rumors had spread about the city as to why. Some guessed correctly: he was accusing Loghain of ruining Ferelden's chances of surviving the Blight. Others had more fanciful tales: Loghain had slept with Eamon's pretty Orlesian wife, and Connor was in fact his son. To those who knew the Teyrn and his disdain for anything Orlesian, it was hard to imagine that he'd fallen into bed with the Arlessa of Redcliffe, let alone "rise" to the occasion to produce an heir. Yet, the gossips were winning with their lewd stories. _

"_And I heard!" said Leliana loudly, "that Loghain's next conquest is the Empress of Orlais herself!" _

_Riordan and Zevran snickered, watching the way their commander's hands came up to either side of her head to cover her ears, and how Leliana was wrapping her arms around the Warden's waist as if to console her. _

"_It is true!" Leliana continued, her smile as bright as the sun on the snow. "I heard it myself." _

"_Shhh!" Scolded the Warden, trying to untangle Leliana's sticky fingers from the various straps and laces of her armor. "You aren't supposed to be drawing attention." _

"_I'm not," she replied with a knowing wink, "I am helping us blend in. Everyone loves good gossip." _

_The Warden sighed. "If you say so." She let a hand fall to rest on Dane's head, the war dog having trotted faithfully by her side. She let her fingers tickle his head, drawing comfort in the simple touch. _

_Leliana was right. None of the people in the streets and crowding around the palace gates paid them any mind. They gave Sten three or four glances, but were otherwise too preoccupied looking through the iron posts to catch a glimpse of Loghain or Eamon. It was only when the companions passed the guards and slipped through the small portcullis that sudden shouts of, "Grey Wardens!" rose from the crowd. _

"_Grey Wardens!" Alistair cheered back to them. He was given an enthusiastic pat on the back from Riordan, who raised an arm in the air to acknowledge the people's excitement. The Warden made no such displays, her gaze and her attention too transfixed on the wooden doors that were slowly being pulled apart for her. Slowly, the gloom of the castle's interior was revealed to them. _

_The entire party tensed when they realized who was waiting on the other side of the doors. _

_Ser Cauthrien stood before a second door that led to the Landsmeet chamber. She had brought her best guards, and a quick count revealed that fifteen men stood with her. It was fifteen elite guards and Cauthrien against the Warden and her nine companions. The Warden did not like these odds, though Cauthrien most certainly did. The woman's skin was pale in the faint light, her hair unnaturally dark. The purple circles under the woman's eyes indicated a lack of sleep and rest. _

_When the Warden and her fellows stepped in, the doors shut. _

"_Warden," said Cauthrien quietly. _

"_Cauthrien," replied the Warden. _

_The two women stared at each other for several moments, each eyeing the other's stance, arms, and intent. The last time they had met, Cauthrien had defeated the Warden. She'd had enough men to overwhelm the Warden and her three other companions, and had dragged the Warden's beaten and bloody body to Fort Drakon. At Fort Drakon, the Warden had experienced untold horrors at the hands of her captors, though she had no real memory of it. She had relied on descriptions from Alistair, who had been with her the entire time. It had not been pleasant, and she was glad she did not remember. _

_This time, the Warden had no intention of losing to Cauthrien. There was no Anora between them to mince and twist their words into an inevitable clash of swords. This, she thought, could be handled with some skill and diplomacy. She would not need her sword arm. _

"_I need to enter the Landsmeet," the Warden explained. _

"_I will not let you stand against my lord." Cauthrien's eyes narrowed. "You will not desecrate the Landsmeet. My lord is, even now, being confirmed as regent and will lead us to victory against the Blight."_

_The Warden raised her hands, palms facing towards Cauthrien. She took a small step forward, indicating that she meant the other woman no harm. Cauthrien took a cautious step back at the Warden's advance, but the Warden merely shook her head. "Do you really," she said quietly, "not see what Loghain has become?" She captured the other woman's eyes, holding them, never breaking the gaze as she moved ever closer to Loghain's trusted second. Cauthrien had only one more step before she was pressed against the door. _

_Cauthrien opened her mouth to reply, but a shout from the other side of the door made her wince instead. _

_The Warden was close enough to Cauthrien that she could reach out and touch the other woman. It was a gambit on her part. Leliana had been watching Cauthrien for some time, having taken it upon herself to study the woman who had sent their commander to Fort Drakon only to return with grievous injuries. Leliana had sworn revenge through libel, ferreting out the woman's low borne past for material. It was Leliana who had discovered how Cauthrien had come to serve Teyrn Loghain, and Leliana who had made the convincing argument that Cauthrien loved Loghain. She did not just deeply admire the man, she loved him. The Warden intended to use Cauthrien's affection for Loghain to her own advantage. _

"_They are not really," the Warden leaned in close to Cauthrien, dropping her voice low so that her companions could not hear her, "making him regent, are they?" Another yell came from the other side of the door, and the Warden offered Cauthrien a sad smile. _

"_He never wanted a civil war, Warden," Cauthrien dropped her eyes to the decorative carpet at their feet. "You and Eamon were always harassing him. He never anticipated Maric's bastard either. Everyone was supposed to rally behind him..." _

"_But they aren't, are they?" The Warden flicked her gaze to the Landsmeet chamber's door. "Even now, Loghain stands in there alone, the lion against the lambs." _

_Cauthrien nodded. _

"_Cauthrien," The Warden placed her hand on the second's shoulder, "Eamon is going to hang him."_

"_And it would be your doing!" She hissed in response, pulling herself away. _

"_No!" The Warden shook her head, "I don't want that at all. I have another alternative." She spoke quickly, quietly, desperately, hoping she was conveying the gravity of the situation to the alarmed woman. _

_The ploy had worked, for Cauthrien was intrigued at the idea of saving her lord. "You have another alternative?" _

"_This is a Blight, Cauthrien. I cannot allow Ferelden's greatest general to be executed. I need his help to defeat the darkspawn and strengthen Ferelden's military in the wake of our losses." She stretched her hand out again and gingerly rested it back where it had lain. "I need your help." She was bending the truth, of course, sweetening her intentions to match Cauthrien's expectations. "You need to let me inside. I need to be there before Eamon has them cast their votes." _

"_And you will let my lord live?" Cauthrien did not seem entirely convinced, but the light of hope was shining so brightly in the brunette's eyes that it could have lit even the blackest gloom of the Deep Roads. _

_The Warden nodded. "I swear it." _

"_Men," said Cauthrien loudly, "stand aside. Let the Warden and her companions pass." _

_The Warden watched the guards shuffle to the corners of the room. She let her voice return to its normal volume. "I need your sword, Cauthrien." _

_Loghain's second raised her eyebrows. "Why? What does my sword have to do with this?" _

"_If I die," the Warden said mildly, "then I cannot make good on my word. If I fight Loghain, my chances of dying increase greatly. You are," she played upon Cauthrien's importance to Loghain, "his most beloved commander. He has put his utmost trust and faith in you. If he sees that you have aligned yourself with me, he may be amenable to listening to me. Do you understand," the Warden again captured Cauthrien's honey brown eyes, "what I am saying?" _

_Cauthrien looked positively pained by the action, but she unbuckled the scabbard that held her greatsword to her back. "You will return this to me?" _

_The Warden chuckled, "My lady Cauthrien, I have neither the muscle nor the will to control such a fine blade. She will be yours again." _

_This placated Cauthrien, who stepped away from the double doors leading to the Landsmeet chamber. "Maker help you, Warden. I pray my lord listens." _

_The Warden slung Cauthrien's scabbard over a shoulder and placed her hands on either side of the Landsmeet doors, slowly pushing with all her might to swing the great things outward. With the slow, aching groan of ancient wood, the doors pushed open into the mighty hall that was the Landsmeet chamber. _

_The chamber was just how the Warden remembered it from her girlhood. On both sides of the great doors were the courtier balconies, and it was there that the lesser and more petty nobles were forced to stand. Lining the wooden posts of these balconies hung the standards of the Bannorn, their rich colors vibrant against the muted stone and woodwork of the room. On an elevated platform sat the king's throne. Mounted above the throne along the wall were the swords of dead Fereldan kings. On either side of these swords hung the standard of the Theirin bloodline. The room was fit for both formal and informal meetings, since its architecture and decorations were both drab and plush. _

_In the mass of nobles, petty nobles and courtiers, the Warden could see the faces of the Banns and Arls she had swayed to her cause. They parted for her as she passed down the center of the room, her boots leaving stains on the plush blue and gold carpet that was routinely washed after each Landsmeet. Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan fell into step beside her as she passed them, pushing forward onto the raised dais where the throne sat empty and Loghain stood full of malice. Anora was nowhere to be seen. _

"_Ah! And here we have the puppeteer!" Loghain pointed a finger at the Warden as she approached. "Tell us, Warden, how will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be stripling of a prince?" _

_At the stairs to the platform, Eamon, Teagan, and the Warden's companions halted. But the Warden continued to walk forward, letting Cauthrien's scabbard fall over her shoulder and into her waiting hands. She caught Loghain's alarmed gaze as she approached, the frost in his blue eyes unyielding against the hurricane of grey she sent his way. Step by step, she moved towards him, each clatter of her boots was an echo in the slowly quieting room. She came to stand below Loghain, merely two steps down from him on the dais. She had her back to her friends. _

_She presented her new weapon to him, making a show of it to Loghain. She let him observe the simple scabbard that covered the blade's deadly edge, the beautiful artistry of the sword's leaf-engraved pommel, and then, when she had thought he'd looked long enough, she let the sword fall to his feet. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. _

"_You stand alone," she said softly so that no one save the Teyrn could hear. "Let us talk in private, Loghain. Just the two of us." _

"_Talk?" Loghain laughed loudly. "Why would I talk to you? Why would I treat in private with you?" The volume of his voice rose. "What have you to say to me that you can't say here before all these noble souls, all these brave Fereldan men and women? Do you have word from the Empress Celene? Come, Warden, spill your lies like your order let Cailan spill his blood!" _

"_The Blight," the Warden said coldly, "is the threat. Orlais is not." _

"_Oh, aren't they? And what did Orlais want to send us to fight our Darkspawn? Legions of Chevaliers!" Loghain advanced down the dais, pushing the Warden back stair by stair. "And once we've opened our borders to the Chevaliers, do we really expect them to return to Orlais without a fight? They've tasted Fereldan fruit once, they'd do so again!"_

"_That is madness! It is a sentiment in poor taste!" the Warden turned her back to him, letting swift steps take her back to the main floor of the chamber. "But what can we expect from a man who would sell good, honest, FERELDAN citizens into slavery, just to fund his paranoia and his war?" _

_There was a small gasp from the Landsmeet. _

"_Oh yes," the Warden continued, "His Grace has been selling elves to the Tevinter Imperium."_

"_That is blasphemous, Loghain Mac Tir," spoke the Revered Mother Elemena, her hands turning white against the wood railing she gripped. "Not only do you interfere with the sacred duties of the templar, but you also consort with ancient, evil enemies. It was the Tevinter mages who brought this doom upon our world!" _

"_Sacrifices were made! If they were too great, then the Maker will judge me for it. But do not think," Loghain cast a glare at all those present, "that you can lecture me on the proper etiquette of war. Those of you who fought beside Maric know that war is cruel. There is no such thing as innocents, only the living and the dead, and the degrees of guilt that both must bear!" _

"_Hear, hear!" shouted Bann Draycut, clapping wildly at Loghain's words. _

"_And you feel no guilt in poisoning Arl Eamon? By sending a blood mage into his household? Do you," the Warden turned to look at him over her shoulder, "enjoy preying on the weaknesses of others? Manipulating their fears? Is that why you were so willing to overlook Rendon Howe's massacres? Was it Howe who taught you these things?" _

"_You dare speak to me of manipulating, girl?" Loghain's eyes narrowed into dagger slits as he regarded the young woman who stood before him on the Landsmeet floor, the Bannorn lapping up every carefully chosen word. "You who would seek to twist my words and my intentions so that you can set your lover on the throne? Tell me, what have you done with my daughter, Warden? Where is Ferelden's rightful queen?" _

"_I am here, father." Anora had been lurking in a side corridor, listening through a partially opened door to the two orators battle with one another. She entered the Landsmeet with her usual grace and poise, her hips gently swaying and her shoulders relaxed and confident. "Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me as I speak. My father is not the man we once knew. He is not the Hero of River Dane. He is not a protector of Ferelden."_

_Anora's words seemed to hit Loghain in the gut, as all the air left his lungs. The Warden watched him draw in a ragged breath at Anora's declaration. His pillars had been broken, the Warden thought. He had to accept defeat. _

"_He has turned aside help," she continued, "and refused to protect your king. He tried to silence me."_

"_So she got to you too, did she, Anora?" Loghain's voice held only notes of disappointment as he addressed his daughter. "She convinced you to turn on me." He talked to her as though he had found her stealing, or kissing a boy in the stables, as a father would his daughter when she has wounded him by ignoring all of his lessons. "I wanted to protect you from this." He turned his eyes to Bryce Cousland's youngest, seeing only the glimmer of, 'I told you so,' in her eyes. It was true; she had left him standing alone. He bared his teeth at her. "My lords and ladies, our lands have been threatened before! We have been invaded, lost territory, and gained it back. We are a resourceful, proud people. If you stand with me, I will defeat the Blight. Not this girl. Me." He propositioned the vote. _

_The Warden turned her attention to the Bannorn, watching them talk and mingle amongst themselves before she raised her voice. "Highever stands with the Grey Wardens."_

"_Then Gwaren," countered Loghain frostily, "stands with Loghain." _

"_Redcliffe stands with the Grey Warden."_

"_River Dane is with Loghain! Long live the regent!" _

"_Oswin stands behind Loghain!"_

"_Rainesfere stands with the Warden." _

"_South Reach stands with the Wardens!" _

"_West Hill stands with the Grey Wardens!"_

"_Waking Sea is with the Warden!" _

"_Dragons Peak supports the Warden!" _

"_White River is with the Warden!"_

"_Denerim stands beside you, Grey Warden!"_

"_Amaranthine City will support the Grey Warden." _

"_Lothering whole heartedly supports the Grey Warden!"_

"_Westhills is with Loghain, or else hope is lost!" _

"_The people have spoken, Loghain," said Eamon, approaching the Warden. "Ferelden is against you."_

"_Traitors!" The Teyrn of Gwaren roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he snarled at them, "Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives? How DARE you judge me!" He pointed a finger at all the nobles before him, watching their rouged and powdered faces peel back in surprise. "None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have! You want to put your faith in this girl?" A long index finger pointed squarely between the Warden's eyes, "You think she will lead you to victory?" _

_The Teyrn remembered a cold and shivering girl of a similar description creeping into his tent at Ostagar looking for comfort. He had foolishly hinted that she should stay out of the battle, and apparently, she had. She had lived, just as he'd hoped, just as Bryce Cousland would have wanted, and now his good deed had only come back to haunt him. "Take their confidence and their faith into your hands, Warden! Come; see if you can defeat me! You can take Ferelden from my cold, dead fingers!" He would crush her. He would utterly defeat her. And when she lay dying on the floor of the Landsmeet, he would arrest every single one of these traitors and see Eamon's head placed on a pike before the gates of Denerim._

"_I do not want to take Ferelden from you!" the Warden pointed her own finger at the Teyrn, "but I will not let you destroy her! I accept your challenge, Teyrn." _

"_This duel will be fought as tradition dictates," called Alfstanna, noticing the way Loghain had already advanced two steps, sword drawn, towards the Warden. _

"_To the death!" shouted a voice from somewhere in the crowd. _

_"We are CIVILIZED here!" The Warden shouted back, wheeling towards the sudden chorus of chanting that had arisen. She tried to quiet the alarm that had risen in her voice. "We are not barbarians!" Her shield slipped over her shoulder and down her arm, and she drew her sword from her scabbard. _

"_The Warden speaks the truth. Single combat until one party yields. Does the Chantry choose to bear witness over this event?" Alfstanna turned her gaze towards the Revered Mother on the balcony. _

_The Revered Mother nodded gravely. "We bear witness and consent to this duel. May the Maker bless both combatants."_

_The Revered Mother had barely given her blessing before Loghain set himself upon her. The Warden crouched and raised her shield. Loghain's sword slipped along the painted sigil of Highever, nicking the steel and paint. The Warden moved with the blow, stepping in to the slash so she could push Loghain's blade wide. Her sword made a cut at his legs, forcing the Teyrn to drop his shield and pull in his sword arm. He took several steps back, narrowing his eyes as he considered the Warden and her strategy. _

_Loghain had been very careful in preparing for this moment. His contacts in various cities had reported him to the Warden's movements, both on the battlefield and off. He knew how she fought. Her first tactic was to disarm, and if such a thing was not possible, then it was to disable. She was light on her toes and agile, though not prone to dramatic flourishes. The Warden's most frequently used move was a blow to the face with her shield. She would disorient her opponents first, and then press them with a series of quick, staccato attacks that were meant to send them off balance. Then, when they were on their backs, the Warden would tip her sword point to their necks and wait for their surrender. Yes, Loghain knew what she had in store for him, and he was not going to give her the satisfaction of reaching that moment. _

_Loghain slashed upward with his sword, forcing the Warden to dance up the stairs to avoid him. He followed her, chasing her up to the throne. He slashed at her heels and then at her face, watching the Warden duck and spin her shield to block his attacks. He could see the uncertainty on her face, the doubt in her eyes. It filled Loghain with pride; he'd called the Warden out. No matter how many supporters she had, none of them could save her from his wrath. As soon as she fell, they all would, and he could see her understanding of the situation as plain as day on her furrowed brow. "You can't win, little girl," he growled at her, lunging forward to skewer her with the point of his sword. _

_The Warden dashed sideways across the dais, feet swift and sure on the stones. She did not return Loghain's banter. Instead, she set herself up for her next attack. As Loghain closed the distance between them, she let her shield dip. She settled herself on the balls of her toes, ready to spring into action. When Loghain's strike came, the Warden easily sidestepped it. Her sword arm leading her spin, she pivoted on her toes, aiming her blade for Loghain's neck. _

_In the split second it took him to realize what she was about to do, Loghain recognized his opportunity. He saw the vulnerable stretch of her sword arm, the way her back would be turned towards him for the briefest of movements… more quickly than he thought possible, he followed the spin of her body. He tucked his side into her back, capturing her sword arm beneath his own. He did not intend to just slay this woman on the spot. As she had hoped to break him by robbing him of his supporters and their coin, so too did he hope to break her supporters by breaking her. He would humiliate her before everyone in the Landsmeet, and make them all recognize just how foolish little girls playing at war truly were._

_The Warden flailed in his grasp, surprised that her offensive arm had been pinned so cleverly against Loghain's body. He moved much faster than she anticipated. She tried to bring her shield arm forward, to ram it into his face, but every movement she made caused the Teyrn to reposition, bringing her sword arm painfully with him. She could neither reach him with her shield, nor catch his legs with hers. _

_Loghain brought the edge of his shield down against her gauntleted wrist and fingers, causing the Warden to cry out at the sudden jolt of pain. He rammed his shield down against the delicate plate and leatherwork, denting hinges and pinching skin until finally the Warden's sword fell from her fingertips. It clattered to the floor at his feet. Loghain nudged the sword away with his foot and swung the Warden forward, her feet tripping over themselves on the edge of the stairs. _

_The Teyrn of Gwaren watched the Teyrna of Highever tumble head over heels down the stairs to the floor of the Landsmeet. _

_There was a collective gasp in the room, and a sudden shout. Loghain saw the dark red of Teagan Guerrin's head pushing its way through the thick mass of nobles. He saw Eamon at his heels, hands on his brother's shoulders to try to slow him. It was only when the Arls Bryland and Wulff wrapped their hands around his arms that Teagan was placated. Loghain stared at the young Bann. He smirked at him, and watched him struggle against his captors. _

_The Warden struggled to orient herself as she picked herself up from the floor. She was embarrassed. Beyond embarrassed. She had just been disarmed. Could the fight carry on if she had no weapon?  
_

"_Warden," Loghain said, nudging the sword along the dais with his boots, "How do you intend to fight me with no sword? How can you protect this kingdom with no sword? The match is over." _

"_No!" The Warden reached into her boot, revealing the dagger she kept there. "This match is not over. I will not yield!" _

"_Hah!" Draycut's deep voice sounded from somewhere behind her, "you can't defeat the Teyrn with a little knife! Just lay down your arms and accept his mercy." _

_The Warden narrowed her eyes at Loghain. He had taken her sword from her, but he had not defeated her. She could not beat him with just her hunting knife, as it did not have the correct reach to slip past both his shield and hers. It was not likely she would get her sword back, for even now she was watching Loghain nudge and step around the blade as he taunted her. She could lunge for it, but he would never let her reach it. She would be wasting her energy in the effort. _

_Then, a whimsical idea struck her: she was in a room filled with swords. Why, just above Loghain's head, the ancestral swords of the Theirin dynasty lay mounted on hooks on the wall. From the corners of her eye, she could see their well-polished edges catching the faint sunlight filtering in from the clerestories. She dared not look at the blades directly, fearing Loghain might guess her intentions. She had to find some way to draw him away from the throne long enough so that she could grab the nearest blade. _

"_Look at how you prowl up there, so mighty and powerful! Come down, Teyrn Loghain," the Warden called, pulling herself to her full height. She readied her shield before her, her knife resting in her other hand as her sword might. "Does my little knife frighten you? Come see if you can't pry it from my fingers!" _

_Loghain took the bait, kicking her sword down the dais to the smaller platform that the castle's seneschal used when court was in session. He angled his descent to place himself between the Warden and her lost sword. She would not slip by him and steal it back. _

_The Warden crooked her finger at him, motioning for Loghain to come closer. With careful, measured steps, he advanced on her. The Warden bided her time, holding her ground, until he was just the right distance away. With a quick flick of her wrist, she flung her knife at his head. She waited for Loghain's shield to rise in front of his face before she made her mad dash up the stairs. _

_She sprinted up the stairs two-by-two, muscles at peak capacity as she launched herself at the lion's head throne. She scrambled up the arms of the throne, then its back, her arms reaching high for the closest of the swords. The blade edge shone purple in the light, emblazoned with bright blue runes along its length. It was a magnificent sword, but she had no time to admire the dragonbone weapon's curvature. Her fingers brutally yanked at the sword's pommel, ripping the blade free of the protective clasps that held it to the stone wall. The force of her pull sent the throne topping to one side, sending the Warden and the Theirin banners along the wall crashing to the ground in a flurry of blood red and steel. _

"_Blasphemous!" Ceorlic yelled. _

_But the Warden didn't care about sacrilege at that moment. With a broad sweep of her new sword, she cut through the fabric that clung to her hips and shield, shredding Calenhad's royal symbol without remorse or regret. She stood, panting and exhilarated, amidst the wreckage of red and silver fabric, splintered wood, and broken traditions. _

_Loghain could only stare, completely transfixed on the image of the Lady Cousland holding Maric's sword amidst the ruins of his dynasty. The girl had surprised him. He should not have underestimated her. _

_The Warden approached Loghain, her new sword fitting snuggly in her grip. It was far more ornate than the sturdy, practical sword her father had borne, but old swords often were. There was power in this blade, power that felt surprisingly similar to the tingle she felt in her gut when Darkspawn were near. She reveled in it and let it bolster her. She saw the surprise on the other Teyrn's face, the sudden revelation of something long forgotten in the depths of his eyes. _

_She engaged him in combat, setting a swift and brutal pace. She slashed at him, letting the memories of Highever fuel her fury. She parried his counter attacks, wrapping the atrocities he had committed around her shield arm to brace her defenses. Her entire world became the give and take of their attacks, her body reacting intuitively to the tiny shifts in stance and pressure that Loghain made. She backed him into corners, forced him to flee up the stairs to the throne, pushed him back into the circle of the nobles, and then ran him back out again. He chased her into walls, pushed her into servants, cornered her against doors, and rattled her body with his mighty blows. Their breaths came in the ragged, panting gasps of lovers, and it was evident that they would not be able to continue for much longer. One of them would have to find an advantage and capitalize on it soon. _

_As fate would have it, the Warden found her opening to strike. She needed an opportunity to speak to Loghain and convince him to join the Grey Wardens. She needed to get him as far away from Eamon, Teagan, and Alistair as possible, just in case one of the three couldn't wait for the gallows. So she herded him, carefully shepherding his movements so that he was standing on the seneschal's platform. The stone bench stood as tall as his knees, and it was with a quick parry that she sent Loghain's blade high above his head and her boot into his gut. Loghain toppled backwards over the bench, clattering against the floor with a squealing and scraping of armor. _

_The Warden followed him, taking advantage of his surprise. She vaulted over the bench, angling her shield over her body so that the sword Loghain lifted to meet her scraped harmlessly across its steel. Her knees found Loghain's shoulders, and she hefted her weight forward, pinning him to the ground. The sword in his wrist flailed helplessly, and his shield arm lay still on the stone. She pressed the edge of her shield to his neck, though her sword was ready to strike should he try anything. _

_But Loghain was spent. His brow was covered in sweat, and his hair clung in sticky clumps to his face. He painted below her, his eyes shining with pain and memory. "There is a strength in you that I have not seen since Maric. I yield." _

"_Good." The Warden lowered her sword arm and dropped her lips to his ear. She spoke in quick, urgent tones. "Arl Eamon plans to hang you, but I need you to help me defend Ferelden. I want you to become a Grey Warden. Join me." _

_Loghain looked confused, his thick, black eyebrows knotting together. "Why? That's a death sentence anyway." _

"_You could survive the Joining," she replied quickly, "so it is not guaranteed. But I need your answer, Loghain. I need it now. Will you join me, or will you let Eamon have his way?" _

"_I will join you, Aurora. Maker help me." _

"_Then Loghain Mac Tir, I conscript you into the Grey Wardens, and I take you into my custody. I take full responsibility for all your actions." The Warden lifted herself off Loghain, watching as he slowly picked himself up. He rolled his shoulders, wincing. _

_The Warden turned her attention to the Landsmeet, searching out Riordan and his bright blue gaze. She found the Senior Warden of Jader leaning against one of the bare wooden posts that held aloft the rightmost balcony. She nodded at him, and saw him slowly return the gesture and move to join her. The Warden took a deep breath, readying herself for the plunge. "My Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet," she lifted the dragonbone sword high, "Loghain Mac Tir has yielded to me. The throne resides with Alistair Theirin, son of King Maric Theirin, and all properties accumulated by Dowager Queen Anora and King Cailan fall into his hands. Dowager Queen Anora will become the new Teyrna of Gwaren, and all of Loghain Mac Tir's properties will fall into her control." _

"_And," Alistair said loudly, approaching the ruins of his throne, "as my first order of duty, I command that this man," he pointed to Loghain, who was being helped by Riordan, "this traitor, be sentenced to death!"_

"_No!" Anora pushed herself out of the crowd, "You promised!" She came to stand before the Warden, all golden fury and sonorous tones, "You gave me your word, Warden!" She was of course speaking about her father's safety, rather than her position as monarch of Ferelden. _

"_I have kept my word." The Warden's grip tightened on the sword's pommel. "As Warden Commander of Ferelden, I conscript Loghain Mac Tir into the Grey Wardens. His actions I take as my own." _

_Alistair felt as if the floor was lifted from under his feet. His jaw dropped, creamy brown eyes wide in shock. "WHAT? Joining the Wardens is an honor, not a punishment! Name him a Warden and you cheapen us all! I will not stand next to him as a brother. I won't!" _

"_Alistair," said Riordan gravely, "we need all the help we can get."_

"_No! I refuse! I'm king!" He thumped a fist against his chest, "What good is it to be king if my orders aren't even carried out?" Alistair shrugged off the calming hand that Eamon placed on his arm, the Arl having come to stand beside him to placate his temper. "I demand this man be executed!"_

"_Alistair, compose yourself." Eamon turned to look at the three Wardens. "This is an unexpected turn of events, but I have heard that the Joining ritual is often fatal. If the Maker wills it so, Loghain Mac Tir will meet his death. The Warden Commander and Kingmaker has spoken," his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked upon the Warden, "none of us can defy her word." _

"_I can't believe this." Alistair ran his hands through his hair, fingers scratching vigorously at his scalp. "This is like some bad nightmare." _

"_Thank you," Anora said quietly, touching the Warden's arm as she went to attend to her father. _

_The Warden followed her to Loghain and Riordan, ignoring the sudden onslaught of Eamon's droning speech to the Landsmeet about unity and order in this time of crisis. _

"_I will take him back to Eamon's estate and begin the Joining ritual," Riordan said. "While I believe that Eamon is a man of his word, I do not trust Alistair to take this lightly." _

"_You think he'd do my father harm?" Anora asked, looking at the Senior Warden of Jader with a mixture of apprehension and suspicion. _

"_Desperate men are driven to desperate measures," Riordan flicked his eyes to Alistair, who was looking at the huddled group of the Warden, Riordan, Loghain, and Anora with venom. "I hope the lad manages to gain his composure. We will need our brother before the final battle." _

"_Enough of this. Can we just get this over with?" In Loghain's hand rested the Warden's sword, Riordan having retrieved it from just below the wicked bench that had tripped him. "And before I forget, this is yours."_

"_Thank you," the Warden took it, the weight of her sword resting awkwardly in her shield hand. "I suppose I can't keep the sword I tore from the wall."_

"_You wield Maric's sword as he did, for that alone," Loghain replied with a wry smile, "I'd let you keep it. But I don't think the Princeling and his keeper would. Best return that, girl."_

_She nodded. "I will. Shall we be off then?"_

_Riordan chuckled. "I'm sorry, lass, but I will administer the Joining. You must stay here. You are the Warden Commander of Ferelden. It is your responsibility to mollify the nobility." _

"_Damn it, Riordan," the Warden sighed, "why did I suspect you would say that?" The tips of her swords drooped to the floor, echoing the sentiment she felt inside. _

_Riordan gently touched Loghain on the shoulder, inclining his head. "Come, Brother. Let us leave the Warden Commander to her duty." He gave the Warden a wink. "Teyrna Cousland." With that, Riordan led Loghain out one of the side entrances of the Landsmeet chamber, disappearing into the shadowy gloom of a corridor. _

_The Warden looked to Anora, whose hands were surprisingly still despite the amount of things that must have been on the older woman's mind. She stared after her father. "He will survive the Joining," she said quietly. "Those who don't want it are often the ones who live." _

"_You know from experience?" the Dowager Queen asked, her blue eyes vague and unfocused when she turned them to the Warden's face. _

_The Warden Commander nodded in response. She offered Anora Maric's sword. "You have more claim to touch it than I." _

_Anora took the blade hesitantly, surprised at how light it felt. "I think my father was always disappointed that I did not take a long term interest in swords." _

"_I find it hard to think," the Warden gave Anora a small smile as she slipped her sword back into her scabbard, "that he could ever be disappointed in you at all." _

"_I…" Anora frowned. "Maybe." She was at a loss for words. _

_The Warden turned from the Teyrna of Gwaren, looking for her companions in the crowd. Their expressions fell into a variety of categories. Wynne was the most disappointed, mirroring Alistair's pained expression. Sten was the most approving, visibly nodding at her when she caught his eye. The rest of her companions seemed indifferent. Morrigan watched Eamon with disinterest, her delicate nose wrinkled in disdain at his words. Zevran gave the Warden a shrug, offering a white smile in her direction. Leliana was too busy scratching Dane's head and ears to notice the Warden's glance. A quick look in Alistair's direction told the Warden all she needed to know about his thoughts. _

_When Eamon stopped speaking, the Landsmeet fell into a chorus of cheers. Mayfaire, Ceorlic, and Draycut hung sullenly at the back of the chamber, purposefully separating themselves from their counterparts. And it when it was that Eamon dismissed them all, the Warden found herself wishing that she had sprinted after Loghain and Riordan. She was drowning in a sea of perfume and silk, buffeted by questions as strong as Loghain's sword arm and accusations as sharp as his blade._

* * *

_Some of that dialog was shamelessly lifted from the game. It should be pretty obvious what lines they were! _

_The next chapter will be...fun. You'll see. M for Massacres, Maidens, and Moodiness. _

_As always, many thanks to the readers, alerters and reviewers. Your feedback is always appreciated and means quite a lot! _


	29. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

When the sun had waned and turned a lazy red in the sky, the Warden sought Loghain out in the common room. He was sitting stiffly in a massive, high-backed chair the color of dried cranberries. The upholstery had faded gold stitching and a few carefully mended rips, only evident by the black thread used to sew the fabric together again. A patch of orange covered a portion of the chair's seat, though Loghain's heavily armored legs hid the majority of it.

He was staring, the Warden saw, at a great beast of unknown origins that hung over the head of the fireplace. It vaguely resembled a dragon, but the face was too squat and the eyes too bulbous. A huge horn protruded from its nose, while two smaller horns rose from ridges above its eyes. Its skin was a mottled green and yellow, and quite an ugly contrast against the dark wood of the room.

"I think it may be a basilisk," said the Warden, placing her hand on the back of the chair.

"Wouldn't we be turned to stone?" Loghain looked to the woman standing at his shoulder. She had taken off her armor. Done it without him, probably spinning around in a circle as she did so, muttering as she tugged at laces and pulled at clasps. He smirked. "Or is that only the case for live basilisks?" He took the opportunity to regard her in the firelight. She had not changed from when he had seen her that morning on the ship. Her tunic was still a dark blue, her leggings and boots still black. She was without her sword, though she had fastened her belt high around the cinch of her waist. He liked seeing her in breeches and a tucked shirt, since they emphasized her figure so well.

The Warden shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

Dane snuffled his way down the stairs, padding to Loghain where he rested his large head on the man's knee. _Wuff. _

"Somebody is hungry," Loghain scratched the dog's head fondly. "I bet you couldn't wait until dinner."

"He couldn't," said the Warden dryly, "he ate all the jerky from my bags." She settled her hands on her hips. "Naughty dog."

Dane whined, turning his dark eyes to Loghain.

"You couldn't resist it, could you?" Loghain's fingers tickled behind Dane's ears, sending the war dog's foot thumping on the ground. "Poor beast, probably starving."

The Warden smiled at the sight of her second crooning over Dane. It was an odd thought, she realized, to call him her second. She had been doing for some time, but it was now only dawning on her that this was her commitment as much as it was his. He would guard her secrets and carry out her orders, fight in her name and the name of the Grey Wardens, and run the Ferelden operation when she was away. He was not _just _her second in command, but also her second opinion, and her second wind. He would give her sound counsel. When she became too tired or weary, fraught by the troubles of running an organization, he would be there to bolster her spirits. He would be hers until the bitter end.

"I'm hungry too, you know," she mock-groused, "are you going to scratch behind my ears as well?"

Loghain raised an eyebrow, turning his attention away from Dane. "Somehow, I think you might bite me, madam, if I tried."

"I only bite when asked," she smirked at him, watching the way in which his eyes suddenly flicked away from her face. "But truly, that is such a double standard. If _I _ate all the jerky, you'd probably put me over your knee."

"And you'd very well deserve it too."

The Warden puckered her lips and gave him a half-hearted slap to the back of his head. "Maybe I'll put _you _over my knee for your insolence."

"I would like to see you try." Loghain gave a sniff of indignation. He shooed Dane away, pushing himself away from the patchy armchair. "But I suppose you didn't come down here to rouse me from my thoughts needlessly."

The Lady nodded. "Dinner." She patted her stomach for emphasis. "Please." Her boots clicked along the wooden floorboards as she made for the exit.

"The Grey Griffon, was it?" Loghain turned to the door, finding the Warden already at it. "I hope you remember where it was."

"On the other side of the district," her hand rested on the door handle. "Are you going out like that?"

Loghain looked down at himself. All his armor was in place, it was well polished, and he thought he looked presentable. He looked back at her and nodded.

The Warden chuckled. "Your sword is missing. As is your shield. You plan to walk around Orlais unarmed? I am shocked."

"I have the utmost faith," Loghain said, striding towards her with Dane at his heels, "that you'll talk us out of whatever trouble we find."

"Putting the responsibility on me, are you?" The Warden patted his gauntlet, capturing his hand as she led him from their temporary home, "Very well. I will keep you well, Loghain Mac Tir. You are safe in these hands!"

The three of them walked leisurely from the apartment to the Grey Griffon, which was really not as hard to find as Loghain thought. It was on the other side of the district, nestled close to one of the perpetually opened gates. It was easy to spot, as not only was the sign quite visible in the fading light, but it was also the loudest building on the block.

The door of the tavern was propped open, and a cheerful glow slipped out of the large gap and the thin beaten glass of the windows. Raucous laughter spilled out onto the street, as did cheers, and the clanking of earthenware mugs. The two Wardens half-expected to find their fellows hanging out of the windows at the amount of laughter and uproar there was, but it seemed that whatever they were doing inside was limited to the confines of the building.

The Warden entered the tavern first. It was a large establishment, she found, that mimicked the architecture and color scheme of the house in which she and Loghain were staying. There was a large fireplace, around which were many chairs and stools that were occupied by what she assumed were Grey Wardens. There were also tables and chairs around the room, as well as window seats built behind the outside's grand shuttered windows. She could hardly see the counter of the bar, since there were many men and women lined up at its length, throwing their arms in the air and clanking their cups around.

The place smelt of wood smoke, sweat, spice, and gravy.

The Warden's stomach rumbled. It smelt like _dinner._

The insistent press of Loghain's hands against her shoulders drove the Warden deeper inside this strange room of camaraderie and happiness. This was the lifestyle from which Alistair had come, that Duncan had hid, and that Riordan had tried to show her. Duncan had seemed to be the prototypical image of the Grey Warden to her, being so stoic and quiet. Riordan had surprised her with his levity, distorting her original judgments.

"Happy lot, aren't they?" Loghain whispered in her ear, ushering her towards an empty table near the door and sitting her down so that her back was to it. He took the seat opposite from her. It was a force of habit to sit with his back to a wall so that he could survey all the exits and entrances to a room.

The Warden merely nodded, allowing herself to be manhandled as she considered this place. The men and women around her fascinated her. She spied Vidar amidst the crowd at the fire, since he was the only one of the Wardens who had turned to look at the sound of the opening door. She was surprised he'd even heard the creak of the hinges in the loud din of the room. She courteously tilted her head at him, but he gave no such acknowledgement in return. Instead, he watched her with shadowy eyes, eyes that she distinctly did not like when they were turned to her in such a fashion. They made her feel hunted.

"Do you suppose one has to go up to the kitchen maids and ask for food?" Loghain wondered aloud, his hand having found Dane's head once more. The Mabari settled his chin on Loghain's knee, letting his tongue roll out to rest on its armored expanse.

"Generally you wait for them to come to you," replied Serge, who was sitting at the table right next to them with a broad-shouldered, heavily bearded man. "They get angry and spit in your food if you do not."

"Oh! Serge!" The Warden put a hand to her chest, mildly startled at the sight of him, "I did not recognize you in the dimness."

"That is quite all right, little peach," he gave her a friendly smile. "I know you are not accustomed to our faces yet."

The Warden raised her eye at the epithet.

Serge turned to the blonde man sitting opposite him, "Flavius, may I present the Warden Commander of Ferelden, Aurora."

Flavius raised thick eyebrows. "She's a bit young, isn't she?"

"The title is hers by right," Serge replied mildly.

The face of the massively muscled blond broke out into a wide grin, satisfied by the seemingly simple response. He extended a thick hand in her direction. "A pleasure, Warden Commander!"

The Warden slipped her own _much smaller _hand into his, realizing that the man Serge had addressed was _at least _as big as a Qunari. If she had to venture a guess, she might even say he was bigger than Sten, for the size of his hands and the thick cords of his neck were certainly much broader than her Vanguard of the Beresaad's had been. They were so broad that he must have cut the sleeves from his shirt, for the fabric that encased his shoulders was ragged and split.

He could probably break all the bones in her little hand if he squeezed hard enough, though the thought did not stop the Warden from giving his hand a firm squeeze.

His full lips puffed out and away from his beard as he grinned at her, the bright blue of his eyes looked nearly ethereal in the dim candle light. He took the Warden's hand gently in his own, giving her a strong, but not crushing, handshake.

"It is all mine, Flavius." She smiled at him, and did her best not to gawk.

"What part of Ferelden do you hail from, Sister?" he asked.

"Highever," replied the Warden, watching as Flavius's brow knotted as he consulted what must have been a mental map of Ferelden. "On the Waking Sea," she elaborated. "The northernmost tip of the Bannorn."

"Ah. I've never been to Ferelden. Hear its cold though." His blue eyes narrowed sharply. "When Serge here told me that you arrived," Flavius gestured to Serge while the Warden tried to place the man's accent, "I was expecting someone different."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly where you expecting?"

"Someone more _dead._"

The Warden's jaw clenched and she felt a fool for being duped by Flavius's show of friendship. She managed to let out a small, self-effacing chuckle.

"That seems to be a common thing here," replied Loghain acidly from across the table.

"Oh! He talks!" Flavius turned his gaze to Loghain. "How do you do?"

"Flavius, this is my second, Loghain Mac Tir." The Warden placed her hand over one of Loghain's, trying to convey that he needed to control himself in the simple gesture. She had spoken before Loghain, to try to buy her second some time to think of a civil response. "He's from Gwaren, which is one of the southernmost tips of Ferelden."

"Pleasure," Loghain ground out. "Excuse me while I go find us something to eat." He gently shoved Dane's head from his knee and stood, stalking towards the busy bustle of men and women around the kitchen door.

Flavius sighed. "Don't think he likes me very much."

"Oh, I can't see why," Serge smirked at him, "Seconds are very protective of their Firsts."

"What did I say?" Flavius spread out his massive hands in a gesture of confusion. "What did I say? Was just being honest!"

"He takes offense," the Warden said, ducking as one of his arms nearly swept her head off its shoulders, "when people talk of wishing us – me - dead, honesty or not."

"Oh. _Oh._" Flavius shrugged. "Well, what do you expect? You broke the rule. A _very _ancient rule. We're all unhappy you're here."

"And I understand," the Warden replied evenly, trying not to wince at this man's _brutal _honesty, "but it isn't _my fault _I'm not dead. Trust me; I tried to die. I decapitated the Archdemon. It does not get any more dead than that."

Serge raised a hand. "It was a comment made in poor taste, but a sentiment I fear you will not escape until Andraste returns." His black hair was as sleek as a raven's feathers in the firelight.

"Did he expect you to have a hero's welcome?" Flavius cast his eyes to Loghain, who had his arms crossed and was staring down a dwarf with a serving platter in his hands.

"No, of course not." The Warden shook her head. "Trust me; Loghain never idly flatters my ego. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"But he'll protect you, yes?" Serge canted his head curiously.

"I hope so. He's given me no reason not to believe he won't." Loghain had done nothing _but _protect her.

"So, how'd you get that patch?" Flavius pointed at his eye. "From the Archdemon?"

"Hah," the Warden's chuckle was an inefficient cover for her discomfort, "No."

"Darkspawn?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"A crazed templar."

Serge winced. "Oh, they are nasty things, templars. Like little, lyrium-addicted wasps. And, for your information, they are _all _crazy."

"This one was _beyond _crazy." The Warden sighed. "You probably don't hear much Fereldan gossip here, do you?"

"Only what Duncan and Riordan wrote back," Serge replied. "It was mostly about you."

"Oh." Hearing that always surprised the Warden. "Well, about the mages…" She explained to them with the barest details of how Uldred had made a deal with demons to "free" the Circle from the authority of the templars and the Chantry. She carefully omitted the bit about Loghain being responsible for Uldred's empowerment. "And this templar in particular had been captured by the unleashed demons and tormented."

"Using his desires for the pretty young magelings as food, yes?" Serge's lip curled back in disgust.

The Warden nodded.

"Typical."

The Warden did not know if he spoke ill of the demons, or of the templars.

"When the Circle was restored, he lost his mind. He raped and killed three apprentices before escaping. It was…" The Warden remembered the feelings of powerlessness she felt while acting as Greagoir and Irving's eyes within the Fade, of watching Cullen have his way with the young women, slaughtering them as they resisted… "Horrific."

Serge's eyes were dark and interminable. "And where do you come in? Outsiders are not welcome in that sort of business."

"I arrived at the Circle Tower to see a friend of mine shortly after this templar left. They asked me to find him." The Warden shrugged. "So I did."

"Did he stab you in the eye?" asked Flavius, perhaps a little too eagerly.

"No," Loghain dropped a tray of thick of three beef and kidney pies and a hunk of bread on the table. He had come upon them in surprise, the loud chatter of the room drowning out the sound of his heavy footsteps. "He poured acid on her face." Next came two mugs topped in cream-colored froth.

Flavius beamed. "Bravo, Aurora! That is a very good injury! A pity that you can hardly see the burn!"

The Warden turned to her pie, turning her face to hide her bad eye. "It was not my best performance," she replied quietly, breaking the hunk of bread into two pieces, one for her, and one for Loghain.

Loghain placed one of the pies on the floor for Dane before returning to his seat. He knew the Warden was reluctant to speak of her failure in subduing Cullen, and he would not embarrass her in front of her peers by doing it for her.

Flavius gasped at the sight of Dane, who revealed himself from the shadows under the table. "Maker's breath, look at the size of him! I hadn't realized you had a war dog too!"

"He's not just a war dog," Loghain scolded, using a fingernail to break the edge of the piecrust, "he's a _Mabari._"

"One thing you must understand of Fereldans, my friend," Serge said, smiling amicably at the two Fereldans, "is that they love their dogs as much as they love each other."

"Oh, _ho,_ Serge," the Warden turned a side long glance at the well groomed mage, "you are _so _funny. I can't say we haven't heard _that _before."

"I am, what can I say?" His fingers plucked at his robe for emphasis. "It runs in my blood."

Conversation lulled then, as the two Grey Wardens from Ferelden ate their meals. They dipped their little pieces of bread into the thick, stew-like interior of the pie. Truly, it was not a bad dinner, though the crust of the pie was a little _too _rubbery for their polished Fereldan tastes. The juices were well seasoned, however, and the meat melted in their mouths pleasantly. It was enough to overlook the pie's chewy exterior.

Serge and Flavius lapsed into their own private conversation, speaking Orlesian with quick, light tones. The Warden didn't attempt to eavesdrop, since her Orlesian vocabulary was relatively small and she knew she wouldn't learn much with all the background noise. The two Wardens returned to the common tongue when Vidar and Alaric sat themselves down at their table.

"Serge," Alaric said, "Elyria mentioned that the she and her husband might be trying for a little one, but Marcus has been giving her trouble."

Serge said nothing, just inclined his head for Alaric to continue.

"I know she did not get dispensation from Marcus to marry him," Alaric's already ruddy features were flushed, "but I can't see why he wouldn't let them conceive."

"Marcus makes many decisions that I don't understand sometimes," replied Serge wearily, rubbing the fine bridge of his nose with his fingertips, "but this is not up to us."

"You need permission to marry?" The Warden wiped the corners of her mouth delicately with the edge of her thumb. "And to have children?"

"Oh, look, the _Commander _is hopeful." Vidar took a long swig of the bitter drink he'd brought with him, watching her over the rim of the mug.

Serge ignored Vidar's comment. "Yes. Being a Grey Warden is our first duty. Children and spouses interfere with us attending to that duty, so only those Wardens who are capable of balancing their responsibilities are allowed to have families."

"And you disagree," the Warden continued, voice quiet, "with Marcus's decisions in these matters?"

Serge's laugh disarmed her. "Ah, little peach. I disagree with Marcus on many decisions other than Warden fecundity, and that is not just the mage in me speaking."

This piqued the Warden's curiosity. "Why would the mage in you speak of fertility at all?"

"Conception doesn't come naturally or easily to Grey Wardens, and there is always the risk that a conceived child will die from the taint either in the womb or shortly after birth," Alaric plucked at the small remnants of his beard. "Magic can help block the child from the taint and protect the womb."

"That is…fascinating." The Warden's head was filled with ideas and dreams of the future. "But surely, such a thing wouldn't work between two Grey Wardens?"

"We have yet to have success with two Grey Wardens, you are right." Serge gave a noisy little sigh. "Of course, we have not explored _all _the options available."

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, are your 'other' options?"

Flavius chuckled. "Before you squeamish little Fereldans get alarmed, you should know that while Serge may be a practicing blood mage, he's not _evil._"

"Says the man from _Tevinter_," replied Alaric gloomily. "But he's right, Serge is a blood mage, but Serge has been asked by Marcus _not _to use blood magic in matters of conception."

"Which is why I don't participate in such matters at all," Serge sniffed indignantly, handsome face scornful in the firelight.

"And what school do you study, Alaric?" asked the Warden, remembering that mages studied _schools _of magic. They were not merely 'fire' mages, or 'frost' mages.

"Oh, I just dabble." The young man shrugged. "I don't really have much interest in controlling the elements though."

"He can't light even light a fire with flint and tinder," Flavius clapped Alaric on the back, "let alone magic."

Alaric rolled his eyes. "And who is it that reattached your bulbous arm?"

"It was a minor inconvenience."

"It was hanging by a thread of skin!"

"Alaric is a very good healer," Serge said loudly, "and let us be done with it."

Loghain watched the exchanges between the men with a mixture of disdain and longing. He missed the companionship of brothers in arms, but he was not sure he wanted _their _companionship. He most _certainly _did not want the companionship of Vidar. The man, Loghain surmised, was dangerous and untrustworthy. He spoke little, and only with venom when he did. He watched the entrances and exits like a hawk, and held himself tense as if he was a snake poised to strike. He also had a habit of watching the Warden with an interest that Loghain _did not like. _

"Serge gave me praise!" Alaric cheered. "I think I can die happy now!"

"Considering the amount of trouble you walk into, mageling," Flavius clapped a huge hand against Alaric's shoulder, "that could be any day. You're lucky Vidar follows you around!"

"Follow _him_?" Vidar tore his eyes from the Warden's face to Flavius's, "He follows _me._ It must be my _irresistible _charm."

Flavius laughed, tossing his mane of thick, blond hair back as he did so. "Charming to both Alaric and dogs then!"

The Warden felt herself being drawn in by their good humor. "Perhaps not all dogs," she gestured to Dane. "Ser Dane does not seem interested!"

"Well, one can't compete with the scent of _bitch,_" Vidar replied, turning his dark gaze back to her face.

"She does," Flavius agreed, "smell a bit like dog. But then so did Alaric when he first arrived."

Again, the Warden forced herself to laugh, "Very funny. I do so love being reminded I smell like dog. Surely there's more to Fereldans than that?"

"I will admit," Flavius said, "you are breaking the image I had of Fereldan woman." He leered at her. "Want to hear?"

"Somehow, I suspect I really don't." The Warden braced her hands in her lap.

Flavius banged on the table with his fist, calling for silence in the tavern. "A song for our fine Fereldan Commander of the Grey!" He snatched the Warden's mug from the table, raising it high in the air. "All now!"

A chorus of voices sprung up around the Grey Griffon, as other Wardens lifted their goblets and sang with their Tevinter counterpart.

_I'm a man who has been to all corners,_

_Bedded wives, princesses, and mourners. _

_And through my travels I've found_

_Willing women abound!_

_Some are wet and inviting,_

_Others are soft and exciting!_

_No womanly match have I met, _

_That has not succumbed to me yet!  
_

_Haha! Hoho! Hehe!_

_Ahah! Haro! Ahee!_

_Haha! Hoho! Hehe!_

_Ahah! Haro! Ahee!  
_

_The Anders girls are busty and cold, _

_Antivan girls prefer their men old, _

_The Marches girls dance on dainty feet, _

_And Nevarran girls hardly eat.  
_

_Some are wet and inviting, _

_Others are soft and exciting!_

_No womanly match have I met, _

_That has not succumbed to me yet!  
_

_Haha! Hoho! Hehe!_

_Ahah! Haro! Ahee!_

_Haha! Hoho! Hehe!_

_Ahah! Haro! Ahee!  
_

_Orlais has girls filled with lust, _

_Tevinter's girls are high on dust. _

_Rivaini girls are plundered shores, _

_And Fereldan girls are broad-shouldered -  
_

The Warden covered her ears, digging her fingers into them to drown out the words and the raucous, drunken laughter that was smothering her. Truly, this was embarrassing. It was distasteful. She looked to Loghain, who was staring placidly into his mug.

The song was continuing, as the Warden could see Flavius's lips still moving and laughing. It was dreadful. She hummed to herself, drowning out their song with one of her own. A terrible thought struck her, pausing her humming: had Alistair sung songs like this? Had Riordan? The thought made her angry. But she was trapped, unable to leave without causing a scene, forced to listen to them make fun of _cold, barren, Fereldan girls with lips as dry as crags_… She hated it. _…dirty fingernails and buckteeth, their bodies dressed in rags! _ The rhymes were shameful.

Flavius looked to her, grinning, and she made herself grin back, sticking her tongue out at him as is if to playfully challenge his drinking song. "Don't corrupt my delicate ears!" she said loudly as he was mid-verse, and this sent him roaring into laughter as his brothers and sisters carried on the endless tune that continued to list the qualities and virtues of the various women of Thedas.

It did end though. The finale came with howling mirth and knee-slapping joy, and mugs clinking and clattering against one another. Ale spilled on the floor, men belched, and toasts were raised. It was evident that Grey Wardens _really _loved a good time.

"I didn't even sing!" exclaimed the Warden loudly, feigning appreciation at the song under the guise of a smile and an eye crinkled in pleasure, "And you've exhausted me! I'll just have to retire for the evening. Loghain," she sent him a furtive glance, "will you be staying?"

"No." He pushed his mug away. "I won't."

"Well, that settles it then." The Warden stood, her chair scraping loudly, too loudly for her liking, across the wooden floor. "We'll see you later tomorrow afternoon?"

Serge merely inclined his head, looking bored. He had not lifted his voice to join the song, nor had he looked particularly excited or pleased. Whether this was because he found the choice of song offensive, or he just couldn't sing, no one really knew. Alaric and Flavius both waved at the departing Wardens, while Vidar watched their backs with thinly veiled interest.

Outside, the Warden let out the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. She felt the cool night air chill her fevered features. Her neck and cheeks felt hot and flushed, though the Warden was not prone to fits of blushing. And she wasn't blushing because she was flattered, in fact, quite the contrary. Soldiers would be soldiers, but she didn't feel as though she was in a position to be _objectified. _ She outranked _all _of them in there, save perhaps Serge.

She gave a weak gesture with her hand to the relative direction of their apartment before setting off.

Loghain walked stonily beside her, Dane tucked close to his side. He had expected the coarseness of the Grey Wardens, viewing them truly as nothing more than soldiers in a private army. And Loghain had been a soldier once, so he knew exactly what men did and what they liked to sing about. That this particular ballad had only served to glorify Antivan and Orlesian women was nothing surprising, as different regions had different variations on the same songs. Ferelden's version prided the women of Ferelden and the Anderfels for their generous hips and lips, and scorned the wasp-waisted, chicken-legged women of Orlais and Tevinter. But it didn't look like his commander wanted to hear _that _piece of information.

At her room, she bid him a quiet farewell and clucked her tongue for Dane to follow. Loghain had said gently that he'd return later in the night to talk about their busy day tomorrow. She had said nothing in response, merely slipped through a crack in the door and vanished.

True to his word, Loghain found himself knocking on her door later that night, ready to talk strategy with her. They both knew the practicality and necessity for sound battle plans, and now was a time more than ever for them. They were walking into the lion's den tomorrow, into the heart of Orlais itself, and he wanted them to be prepared for the Empress and her Warden pet.

He knocked on her door three times, the first two raps gentle and the last hard. When the Warden came to knock on his door, her first two raps were hard, and the last was gentle. In this way, they knew exactly when the other was at the door waiting. They had devised the system as a way to avoid unnecessary disturbances by courtiers and strangers.

He was surprised to find her already preparing herself for sleep. Her shirt hung loose and untucked around her tight leather breeches. She was barefoot too, and missing her eye patch.

Loghain had never really known a woman to look so battle ready yet unprepared at the same time. He chalked it up to having seen her skills first hand.

She smiled at him. "Come in, Loghain. I was just getting ready for bed, since the day's events have been quite exhausting and the bed they have given me looks incredibly comfortable." She ushered him inside with a few careful movements of her hand. She made no mention to talk to him about what had transpired earlier.

He entered, his armor rattling heavily against his body as he shut the door behind him. He glanced at the aforementioned bed, and found it no different from his own…and his own did not look any more comfortable than the ones he had slept in at Gwaren and Denerim. Dane was making use of the small couch in a corner of the room. The Mabari was fast asleep, with one large paw hanging off the edge of his makeshift bed, twitching in his dreams.

The Lady was moving about the room and turned from him, her fingers going up into her hair to find the tiny pins that held it in place. Her long, deft fingers picked and plucked, releasing the golden coil from its prison. She undid her braid, letting her hair tumble in curly waves down her shoulders. She gave her head a gentle shake, forcing out any of the clips that lingered. Nothing made a sound against the floor, so it was likely she had caught them all with her quick fingers.

Loghain blinked rapidly. In the pale candlelight, her flaxen hair made her look like…no. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to push the sudden image out of his mind. The Warden paid him no mind, passing out of the candle's range and into the gloom. She arranged something in her armoire, the shadows of the wardrobe darkening the luster of her hair. He rubbed his eyes again, trying to banish the returning the echoes of…

She turned towards him and gave him another smile, the image of Rowan vanishing. "They didn't give me many chairs, so you can sit on the vanity stool and I can sit on the bed, or you can sit on the stool and I can sit on you?"

He _looked _at her, his mouth agape at the prospect, and she _laughed._

"Oh, Loghain, your face, it is precious." She was beaming. "I would not impose. But come, sit here," she pointed to the vanity stool, "I'll get the bed."

He moved stiffly to the small vanity stool, careful to balance himself and place most of his weight on his thighs so that he did not break it. She sat across from him on the bed, her legs tucked under her. She had acquired a brush from somewhere, and was now brushing out her long locks.

She looked normal. She had been a noble long ago; she had probably brushed her hair every night. Loghain could see her in his mind's eye, dressed in a thin nightgown, perched upon the edge of her bed, smiling dreamily into the glow of a fire as she groomed. In this conjured reality, she was safe, warm, and loved…all the things that young women likely dreamed of.

Did she dream of these things still, he wondered, would she prefer to go back to a more innocent time?

Loghain cleared his throat, banishing the thoughts of the young, fire-warmed Warden and the curves of her body that were visible through her shift. "On the morrow you're meeting with Empress Celene and the Senior Warden of Val Royeaux. They will likely be curious about you, and will want some answers. I would like to think that the questions won't be particularly difficult to answer, as you have no knowledge about what happened. That being said, they may not ask you anything at all."

She turned her serene, far away eyes to him. Her good eye focused on his face while the other milky orb stared vacantly. The small wrinkle that was developing between her brows winked at him as she considered his words. "Are you actually giving the _Orlesians _the benefit of the doubt?"

He harrumphed. "Old habits die hard, but I have been trying my best to set a good example for the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. I will not make the same mistakes twice."

"That…really pleases me to hear you say that." She put the brush down on the bedside table, fingers hovering over the handle for a moment longer than necessary. Hesitance, perhaps, at acknowledging the sudden earnestness in his words. Her lips quirked upward in a brief smile. "Very pleased."

Loghain felt his gut lurch at the smile. Why did women always _smile _at him like that? Always was it sad, placed on their faces in such a way that they seemed more to be mistakes than genuine expressions of affection. It was Celia's smile after Anora had been born. "Rowan…" It had been Rowan's smile after she married Maric.

"What was that?" she frowned at him.

He hadn't even realized the name had escaped his lips. He must have been going senile in his old age, because whenever he looked at the woman before him, his mind wandered to the past. It made him travel down roads that were painful and long forgotten. To cover his lapse, he cleared his throat again. "Nothing," he said. "You were smiling. That's all."

"Oh…" she seemed a bit taken aback by this, a hand coming up to touch the curve of a lip. "I wasn't even aware that I was smiling."

Loghain kept his face as neutral as possible. "You had a half-smile that was both sad and pleased. A smile that only a woman can make, I'm told."

This elicited a chuckle. "There are many things that only women can do."

"Beyond smiling?" replied Loghain with more mirth than he had intended. Still, while this wasn't talk of strategy, the banter was satisfying. They had not spoken much since they had arrived.

"Lots of things," she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her legs. "Only women can smile with secret, mysterious intent. Oh, and only women can cook the best meals in all of Ferelden…"

Loghain rolled his eyes.

She laughed, "And only we can wear rose petal pink and violet blue! I don't care what the Bannorn say, but men should never wear that hideous Orlesian pink again."

"Maker be praised for that," he agreed.

"And only women can…give heirs." She sighed.

Loghain was not happy to see the melancholy half-smile turn into a grimace. "Madam, you shouldn't concern yourself with children…you didn't even pass the finest cook in all Ferelden test."

Her sad gaze dragged up to meet his, and she raised one elegantly arched eyebrow. "Did you just…insult my cooking?"

"You can never insult the truth," replied Loghain with a wry smile.

"You made a joke."

Loghain's response was a low, rumbling chuckle. "I suppose I did."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Oh, there's nothing to thank me for. Would you like me to insult your sewing skills next?" Loghain leaned forward, shifting his weight to his knees as he watched her idle hands trace patterns into the leather on her thighs. "I bet you couldn't even sew a button properly, let alone mend a tear."

She smiled in a slow, hesitant fashion. "'Tis true. I wield a needle poorly. We should return to our planning, I think, lest you truly begin to hurt my feelings by pointing out my flaws."

"Very well," he shifted straight again, the stool creaking as he did so. "If you drag me with you tomorrow, are you going to take the first blow from the courtiers, or will I?"

"As senior Grey Warden," she mused, "I should probably take it. When I fall, you can pick up the torch and bring us to victory."

"Somehow I doubt you'll leave me much to do at all," Loghain studied her face; saw the dark humor in the curves of her lips and shadows of her eyes, as if she didn't quite want to believe him. "I've seen you in battle and I've seen you handle the Bannorn in and out of the Landsmeet. You will have them fawning over you and agreeing with one another before they even know it…if the Queen doesn't execute you first in jealousy."

She shrugged and stilled her hands, folding them in her lap complacently. "We shall see if my charms extend across borders."

"When I first saw you in Ostagar, I had no idea you'd be so _modest_." He chuckled,"You appeared in my tent like some lost lamb asking for protection. I expected you to bleat at me, but you didn't. You were no lamb at all, were you?" He saw the Warden tilt her head curiously at him, her expression unfathomable. He sighed. "Your contradictions bewitch and confuse men, and I would hate to be your opponent again in politics. I truly fear for them tomorrow, the Empress especially."

"Is that another back handed compliment, Loghain?" she teased.

"Lady, if I truly wished to back hand you, I assure you I wouldn't use my tongue to do so," was the quick, dry response. The small, sharp, wicked glint in the woman's eye sent something akin to fear into Loghain's gut.

Her voice was low, mellow, and primal when she spoke a few moments later. "What would you use your tongue for then?"

He frowned, not liking the warmth that was spreading through his limbs.

Her hand was suddenly at her mouth, and her cheeks were flushed that delicate, Orlesian pink that she had spoken about earlier. "Old habits truly die hard," she smiled bashfully. "Now you see why the Bannorn were so eager to fall into step! My little tongue just wags without a thought for anything. It makes promises that I can't keep."

Something about the tone of her voice didn't convince Loghain that was the case. It had failed to convince him before, and it was failing to convince him now. "I didn't hear you promising anything," he replied, his face surprisingly unguarded despite his wishes.

"That's because you weren't listening." the glimmer of mischief returned, and something else too. Something long since forgotten, something hidden. "Nobody listens until…well. Listening is not a skill that many have."

"You are speaking women's nonsense to me," and Loghain quickly ducked to avoid the pillow thrown at his head. "It is a good thing you stick to swords, my lady." The next pillow bounced off his legs.

"Oh, you…terrible, terrible man."

The other Grey Warden laughed deep in his throat, "is that the best insult that you've got? Come now, surely you've learned a few from your former companions?"

"They're all in dwarven," she said dryly, "and I've got no idea what they mean."

"Probably something to do with bad ale and gas, if my first impressions of Oghren were correct." Loghain snorted, "Not as though that's anything strange in Orzammar, the ale is terrible, and the air is stale."

"I didn't do much drinking while I was there. Not enough time, really." The Warden remembered Orzammar quite well, but she recalled the Deep Roads better. "And I spent most of it in the Deep Roads, anyhow."

"Not a pleasant place by any stretch of the imagination," commented Loghain.

"Yes, you and Maric were there journeying to Gwaren."

"Along with Queen Rowan and an Orlesian bard." Loghain's look soured. "She turned out to be a spy, as you well know. This country is _filled _with them."

The Lady rested back on her hands, her shirt riding up to expose the white flesh of her stomach and the dimple of her bellybutton. She closed her eyes and made a painful sounding laugh. "Please, let's not talk of Orlais and spies tonight. I would like to sleep soundly and not worry about a blade at my throat. Why can't we ever talk of nice things, like poetry, or roses, or storms?"

Another harrumph. "I thought you liked political intrigue? After all, you've only spent your entire life sitting at the feet of masters and playing the grand game yourself."

The Grey Warden collapsed and brought her hands to her chest. "Oh, my machinations, they have ruined me! I'm wounded! Stabbed through the heart by your callous words! Mother, father, how could you conspire with Orlais! How dare you accept perfume and horses! But," she brought her head forward, hair cascading behind her, "in all seriousness, we've got to find better topics of discussion than your hatred for Orlais." When Loghain made no move to reply, she let her head flop back to the bed. "We could talk about maps."

"Then you are almost guaranteed to hear things that you don't like," he drawled, "for with the boundaries comes the nations beyond them, and the reasons why the boundaries are the way they are."

"We can talk about Ferelden, then," suggested the Grey Warden with feigned amusement, as she stared at the ceiling, "you and I both really like that topic." Ferelden might make Loghain more bearable to be around.

Loghain shook his head. "At this point, I think it may be best if we both retire to bed. Tomorrow isn't going to be easy, and it appears neither of us can stay focused on the task at hand." He stood, armor clattering at the movement.

She sat up from the bed, watching his proud and determined gait as he strode from her. She had seen him without that armor. She had seen pieces of him unclothed, and she had liked what she'd seen. His broad shoulders tapered into a thick chest that had only the smallest smattering of dark hair. The cut of his hips was lean, and she had been able to discern the thick, powerful muscles of his thighs beneath the pants he wore. His back was strong. His hands were rough and scarred. She shut her eyes tightly.

The words from her fellow Wardens had hurt her, and there was only one to rectify the situation. She needed – no, wanted - affirmation that she was a desirable woman, and she wanted it from Loghain. She wanted to realize the vision in the Fade, the dreams that she had carried to bed with her each night. If there were to be a man in Thedas who could possibly fix her, it would be him. It would be the disgraced Teyrn and the Hero of River Dane. It would be her second, the man she trusted with her integrity and her life.

"Don't…go."

Loghain halted in his tracks, his hand hovering just over the handle and the key to his exit. This situation was eerily familiar. It had been the night before they departed from Redcliffe, and she was explaining to him her intention to kill the Archdemon. Their situations were reversed. Back then, he had been the one begging her not to go, to reconsider. And here, she was the one asking him not to go, to reconsider something that Loghain had promised himself he absolutely wouldn't do.

His breath caught in his throat at the sound of her bare feet padding across the floor towards him.

He felt cool hands slide across his neck and the weight of someone resting against his back. "Don't go," she whispered to him, "for the night is cold and lonely, and so am I."

It startled him to hear these words coming from _her. _ She had flirted with him, had sent him pretty smiles and bats of her eyelashes, but this? This was blatant and bold. He had been expecting something subtle, if anything came at all. This…was strange, and it was with an uncomfortable shrug of his shoulders that he pushed her away and denied himself the indulgence of the touches he had longed for. "I don't think you know what you're asking for."

She was persistent, her hands coming up to rest on his back while her chin came to rest on his shoulder. "I don't think you know what you're talking about."

Loghain shrugged again, this time more roughly, and spun about to grasp her insistent hands as they tried to grasp him a third time and use their wiles on him. "You can't play this game with me, Aurora. I'm too old for it." He couldn't play the game with her; he wouldn't play it with her. The first women he had loved he'd lost to duty and another man. He did not know if he could love her in the same way, if he even _did _love her. She sent a confusing storm of emotions through him. She infuriated him, infatuated him, empowered him, and crippled him. But did he _love _her? He did not know. _Could _he love her? He did not know that either.

"I'm not playing any game with you at all," the Warden frowned. "I want you, Loghain Mac Tir. I thought I made it obvious to you." Her hands slithered over her chest. "I don't want _them _to be right. I don't want to pretend that I can't feel; that I can't… love. I'm afraid that if I do, it will come true." She sighed against the crook of his neck. "If you do not want me, just say so. This moment will never have happened." Her voice was as soft as the feel of her skin on his, "though I hope that won't be the case."

He released her hands to capture her face, holding her both away from him and near him. "This heart and this body have hurt too much," he begged, "you would do best to leave me well alone, girl. Don't make me do this," but by the Maker how he _wanted _to do it… "Please. I'm old enough to be your father."

"That has never stopped anyone in the past," she smiled at him, her full lips pulled back into an insolent quirk that _dared _him to protest. Her response was breathy, and she let Loghain smell the sweet wine she had drunk with dinner. "And worse matches have been made between spring and autumn than you and I."

And in this light, with her hair brushing against his fingers and her eyes sparkling like long forgotten stars, he remembered the twilight of the Deep Roads and one whom he had held there in his arms. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, she seemed so like…so like…

Then it was done. Either it was her insistence or his weakness, but his arms went slack and she tumbled forward into his lips. Her soft, rose petal colored lips...her mouth wet and warm against his… He dragged her to him, a hand coming up to tangle in her hair while the other splayed on her lower back to ground him. He backed her away from the door, and couldn't imagine that a few moments ago he had considered leaving.

Impassioned by their kiss, the Wardens became a flurry of hands and soft sighs as armor clattered to the ground and clothing was discarded. Fingers struggled with laces, cut themselves on buckles, and trembled against the sudden revelation of skin.

She backed towards the bed, her pale nudity hauntingly unreal in the still air. She did not shy away from as he approached her, though she did bow her arms to cover her breasts, her hands splayed out over her heart. Her large, dark eyes watched him come closer, both sightless and seeing, and they wandered over the plains of his body. They counted the scars and the wounds he had received over the years, and admired the musculature of his powerful arms and legs.

She herself was not scar free, not after her ordeals, and they stood out as gray ridges along the length of her skin. A large, flat scar trailed down her rib towards her hipbone, and there were the blotches of scar tissue from stray arrows and dagger points that dotted her flanks and thighs.

Though Loghain could not see them, he knew that there were fading streak marks on her back from her time spent at Fort Drakon, where both she and Alistair had been whipped and tortured for information about Orlais. He had learned from his Captain that all she knew of Orlais were fairy tales about Chevaliers. A small part of him regretted what had been done, but the rest of him knew it had been required for things to turn out as they did. Otherwise, she would never have been standing before him like this, her chin tilted up and posed like a statue of Andraste: daunting and defiant to the last burning ember.

He brought his hand up and captured a lock of her hair, bringing it close to his face to smell it. She did not smell like the wild Fereldan roses that used to grow in the gardens of Gwaren. She smelled of sea winds and the road. Her hands came to rest on his chest and she curled forward against him, her naked breasts pushing against his skin.

It was his undoing; it was all his undoing. Her smell, her hair, her breasts, the feel of her lips along his jaw…they all laid claim to him, and he to them. He pinned her below him, knocking her backwards with a push of his large hands against the smooth tops of her shoulders. One knee slipped between her legs to brush damp curls as he brought himself to hover over her. He braced a forearm above her head for balance, letting his free hand wander along her curves. A woman's skin was still soft he found even if she was a warrior. She felt like liquid silk below his fingertips, her body a curious satin tapestry of war and woman.

The Warden lifted her head, lips seeking his, and he brought himself down upon her in a bruising kiss. It had been such a long time since he'd felt a woman in his arms, having never dared to let anyone else get this close since Celia's death. He _enjoyed _this. He had not even realized he had missed the sensation of skin on skin, of a supple, willing body below his. He wanted to feel all of her at once, and his hands set a frantic pace against her body. He thumbed roughly at a nipple, forgetting how sensitive they could be in his haste. He thought he heard a chuckle (or was it a groan?) come from her lips. He moved from her breast to her hip, digging his fingertips into the flesh there. They were good hips. Strong hips. Fereldan hips. He let his hand stray lower…

The Warden winced, trying to shift away from his pawing hands. He was looking at her like a starving man, his hands groping at her body as though he was about to tear chunks straight out of her. This was not what she had envisioned. She wanted it slow; she wanted them to take their time. She dragged her tongue seductively over his lips and ghosted her hands gently along the curve of his face, begging him to slow. Where he was frantic, she would be steady. When he ground against her, she pulled away, squirming from the thick arousal pressing into the flesh of her belly. _Wait, _her little pushes told him, mingled with her little groans of protest, _please wait._

But Loghain was swallowing her sighs and gulping down her pleas, pinning her to the bed with his greater weight and suffocating her with the brutal kisses he levied from her. Both his knees were between her thighs now, spreading them in the single-minded lust that had come over him. She felt ready to Loghain, the fingers he had sent exploring into her folds returning slick and wet. He was glad she ready, for he didn't know how much longer he could last if she kept writhing against him, tickling his length with her soft skin.

After all, this was what she had wanted, with all her tantalizing talk of spoils of war and plowing fields. He did not want to disappoint her by _ending _too soon.

Not one to rest on pretense, he tipped her head back with his lips and worried hungrily at the skin just below her chin. The hand not preoccupied in guiding him into her was buried in her golden curls, tugging at her head so that she would reveal more of her glorious expanse of neck to him. He did not need much help finding the passage to her channel, and with the pressure of his hips, he parted both skin and regrets.

The invasion was sudden and painful, and the Warden's hands scratched and beat at his shoulders for him to stop, to cease the burning inside her. She cried out, but all around her, she was being suffocated and smothered by _man_. His scent hung heavy in the air around her and her little cries were drowned out by his much louder groans of appreciation. She struggled to free her head from his hands, but he had a firm grip on her hair. She watched the ceiling with some bitterness while Loghain arched his back and buried himself to the hilt.

There had been worse pain than this, though none ever before so intimate. She grit her teeth and steadied herself. This was what she wanted. This was the mystery she wanted to explore. And this was Loghain, who she trusted. Loghain who wouldn't harm her. Loghain who was, apparently, thicker than two of her long fingers combined and much more…inconsiderate than his dream counterpart that had worshipped her body before claiming her. Oh, but how she _ached, _stretched beyond her limits to accommodate the man grunting above her.

Loghain, with his eyes closed, suckled at the sweet skin of her neck. His nose was pressed against the curve of her jaw and the stubble on his chin scratched the delicate hollow of her throat. He tasted the salt of her skin and felt himself slowly grinding against her at the flavor of her sweat and fears… at _his _sweat and fears. One hand was resting on the smooth curve of her rear, having lifted a thigh high around his waist to get better access to her most guarded of treasures. Nothing had given way for Loghain; there had been no silly little trappings of virginity to hinder his path. He had assumed that the bastard Princeling had claimed the prize first, and it appeared he was right.

His thrusting was short and shallow as he explored her, fingers and lips wandering from breast to forehead and back. He let himself linger on the little places that other lovers had liked. He blew on the crook of her neck, causing her to squirm and sigh even as the goose bumps rose on her skin. He found the sensitive nub of a nipple, letting his tongue roam around its edges until he felt her fingers pull and tug at his hair for the teasing. He laid his cheek to her heart, hearing the brave and steady beat of her blood.

The Warden found his now softened attentions and the sensations they evoked not disagreeable. She was still sore, though the pain had receded to a dull ache. She was accommodating his size, stretching around his surprising girth. When he thrust into her, she no longer dug her nails into his flesh. Instead, she teased her own. A hand clutched his shoulder while the other worked its way between her legs. She rubbed when he thrust, and the pressure against her most secret of places combined with the glorious sensation of being filled was a welcome contrast to the earlier fear and pain she felt.

Loghain hitched her leg up higher, lifting her bodily from the bed. His strong arm supported her rear, even as the muscles in his back and knees ached from misuse. He dropped his weight to the arm resting over her head, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he dug into her deeply with his hips. The tiny sighs she made were heady, and were made even more intoxicating by the knowledge that she had come to him _for him. _She was not looking for an escape or for a replacement; she had wanted him, just as he was. Loghain reeled at the sensation, as he could not remember a time when the woman below him was not using him as a substitute or savior.

He lost himself in the prison of her thighs, grinding and rubbing against her, as he had been wont to do in his dreams. He drove her body into the straw mattress, the wet slap of his skin against hers mimicking the way the headboard clattered against the wall with each of his thrusts. Too much! Too much…years of loneliness, of coldness, of forgotten memories were being brought to the surface as she enveloped him. Maric had taken everything and given nothing back. Ferelden had taken everything and given nothing back. And Rowan…she was devouring him too quickly, and all he could do to hold on was whisper her name over and over again.

"Oh, Maker," he cried, nearing his shattering point, "Oh, _Rowan. _Rowan!"

The body below him froze.

Loghain realized that he had forgotten himself. He had been drawn into an earlier time where this curly hair was russet, and these scars were smooth. But it was all coming back to him now, and he was seeing in all clarity his dreadful mistake. His shatter point, his release, tumbled away. His ardor went cold. The body below him, still as a mouse hiding from a hawk in the field, trembled in something Loghain dared not name. He prayed to the Maker she wasn't crying, he would not be able to handle her crying, but he couldn't just hide his face in her neck like a coward. He had to meet her eyes. He lifted his head.

She looked shocked. Her eyes were wide and a frightening sight, if only for the unearthly spin of the smoke in the quartz. She had stopped breathing, her breath caught in her throat.

Loghain touched a hand to her face, his own eyes wide and worried. "I'm so -"

At the touch of his fingertips to her cheek, she came back to herself. "_Bastard,_" the Warden snarled. Her hands came up around his neck, fingers slick with her musk. She squeezed. "I am _not _Rowan._" _

He struggled to speak, to protest, but the vice like grip around his neck stopped all conscious thought. She was _choking _him, Maker's breath; she could _kill _him if she squeezed any harder. He struggled against the vice of her fingers, looking down into the face of fury itself. Bryce Cousland's little spitfire was taking her revenge on him, Maker help him.

"I will not be _supplanted._" It was the first word that came to her mind, and it was the same one Loghain had used when speaking of Alistair. How ironic, how _infuriating _that this man could talk of others cuckolding their wives when he was no better. How _dare _he. How _dare _he call out the name of another woman. A _dead _woman, no less. What had been her moment of important affirmation to this man was gone with his careless whisper. It was…unacceptable. And she would be dammed, _utterly _damned if she let him find release when she could not. She wouldn't be used. Not like that.

He pulled at her fingers in a gesture of futility, and the Warden used his efforts to her advantage. She flipped him onto his back with a push of her powerful legs and a twist of her hips. She kept her hands firmly locked around his throat. Loghain's crown had not fled far from its new kingdom during the struggle, but it was only when the Warden had secured him safely below her that she drove him back to the throne with a snap of her hips.

She narrowed her eyes, leaning down so that she hovered over his lips that were parting in an effort to draw breath. "I am _not _her." Her fingers tightened, squeezing the lump in his throat until she could see his eyes watering and losing their focus. His fingers clawed at her skin. She reared up, her chin tilted backwards, and ground her hips over him. "I _will not be used..._" She bucked against him forcefully, sending the headboard banging against the wall, "…as a _substitute._ I deserve _more," _she growled.

Loghain stared up at her as she rode him, transfixed at the sight of her. He was both aroused and terrified by the girl having her way with him. She looked feral and golden above him. Her face was fixed into a snarl, her full lips pulled back over her teeth. Her head had lolled back to reveal the creamy underside of her neck and jaw, the skin peppered with little red marks. She had also shut her eyes, pinching them together tightly so that her dark lashes fanned across her cheeks. Her long hair hung tangled down her back, and he felt it tickling his skin each time she leaned backwards into one of her deep, violent strokes.

He was no longer concerned with prying her hands away from his neck; let her kill him as she took her pleasure from his body. It was the least he deserved. He placed his hands on her hips, urging her into a brutal pace, dragging her sex against his at every opportunity. He felt her fingers clench when her insides did, felt her hot breath on his face when she brought her lips against his in a feather light kiss.

"You cost me everything," the Warden said between her gasps for air, "took everything from me." All the Warden had left was her name and the reputation it carried. It was a strong name, a powerful name, and was forged from an ancient bloodline. How _dare _he forget it. Her fingers tightened when she saw Loghain's lips try and move in response, threatening to completely cut off the small amount of air and freedom she had allowed him. "I have nothing left, not even _my cold and wretched heart_. But I will not let you take my _name _from me."

He didn't argue, couldn't argue, instead his fingertips dug deeply into the curves of her rear, bruising the pretty, white skin there just as she was bruising the expanse of his neck. Her forehead rested against his, and she was crying out to the Maker and to him, clutching him as though he was the last vestige of her control. The bed shook and the room spun around him.

"Who am I?" she asked her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers grasped his jaws, forcing his head backwards so that she could bite hungrily at his neck. "_Recognize me," _she commanded, teeth pulling at his ear.

"_Aurora,_" he growled out, catching the dark grey of her eye. "_Cousland._"

"Again!" she cried, rearing like the finest of thoroughbred mares, her breasts sliding against his chest as she arched her back.

"Aurora!"

The sound of her name on his lips was her undoing, and she met her end with a fevered sob. She braced her hands on his chest, riding him to completion in a beautiful symphony of creaking wood, slapping skin, and hoarse cries. The sight of her wanton and wild above him gave Loghain his own release, and he spilled himself into her depths with a low groan, hips hopelessly bucking upwards against her.

Loghain's hands fell back to the bed and he lay breathless below the Warden, completely spent. His eyes closed, letting the blessed air fill his lungs. He slowly came back to himself, head breaking the surface of the ocean he had nearly drowned in.

The Warden disengaged herself from his now softening expanse. She felt hollow and empty inside. His seed and physical presence had done nothing to fill the gaping chasm that still yawned within her. Surely, no one suffered as much as she did at that very moment. The coupling was supposed to reinvigorate her. She was supposed to feel better. She was supposed to feel loved and wanted. But she had obtained none of these things from their hurried, brutal union.

She felt no warmer, no more alive than she did before. In fact, she felt worse. Her heart was only colder, and now more than ever did she truly wish that she was the unfeeling creature Vidar made her out to be. Guilt, anger, and loneliness were festering in the hollow spaces that Alistair and Loghain had opened. This union had brought out the worst in both of them, and she was shocked at both her own loss of control and Loghain's loss of reality.

She realized that this had been a terrible mistake. Her girlish fantasies had gotten the better of her, and all she had to show for it was a feeling of self-loathing and a half-dead man lying in her bed.

"Aurora," Loghain croaked, hands coming up to touch the red marks around his neck from where her fingers had gripped him. His entire body felt boneless. She had choked and fucked him well and thorough.

"Stop," the Warden told him, "I don't want to hear anything from you."

Loghain was more than happy to comply; he was not sure he could say much at all. He let himself rest on her bed, feeling the breeze of her movements soothe his sore and heated skin.

"You will," she continued coldly, slipping from the bed to gather his personal effects, "go back to your room. I expect to see you ready to leave in the common room after breakfast." Breakfast was served three bells after sunrise, she recalled. "And then we shall make our way to the palace." Loghain's tunic had been thrown precariously over the back of the couch Dane was using to sleep on. As she pulled the fabric into her arms, she saw Dane still deep in repose, though his paws had been suspiciously placed over his head to flatten his ears. Daft dog. She returned to Loghain and dropped the armor pieces on the bed, letting them linger cold and sharp against his bare legs.

With a wince, Loghain sat himself up. He would rather be choked again than go to the palace, but he stopped himself from saying so at the image of her. She was standing naked and furious before him. She looked a sight, like a fanciful creature from a storybook he had owned as a child. With her hair loose and tangled around her face, her body covered in their sweat and essence, and her face barely held in check…she could have been a witch of the wilds, a Chasind pixie, an avenging spirit of Elvhenan…

She was very hurt, he knew. Very angry. Though the lines of her face were smooth and untroubled, the language of her body belied its unease. He could see her distress in the tense way she stood. Her muscles were coiled as tightly as rope and her hands were trembling as they braced themselves on her hips. He thought he saw her knees tremor, and he didn't blame her if they were. Were he in her position, his knees would probably have been knocking more than Maric at his door.

She had every right to be hurt and angry with him. He was a foolish old man who had taken her roughly and then called her by another's lover name. He had been arrogant. Distantly, he remembered tiny little squeaks of pain, of nails turning into claws as they thumped and shredded his back, of hips pulling away from him. Had she wanted this terrible thing at all?

The Warden saw Loghain rub at his throat absently, his eyes turning from her countenance to his mixture of clothing and armor that sat beside him on the bed. "Get up," she ordered. He looked bewildered, bordering on stricken. He looked how she felt.

Loghain struggled to comply, but managed to find his feet after a quick stagger. He watched the Warden gather the edges of the bed sheet, bringing them together around his armor, and clothing. She wasn't even letting him get dressed; she was hurrying him out the door, his possessions having been turned into a hasty package. Her breasts and hips swayed as she worked, and Loghain guessed that she had probably forgotten that she was naked and was still alluring to look at even when she wasn't trying to (deservedly) kill him.

Mentally, he amended the statement. She hadn't tried to kill him. If she wanted him dead, he would be. She could have killed him countless times over before she'd gotten him into bed.

She picked up his bundle of things, thrusting them against his chest. "Leave."

He watched her flinch at the contact of their bare skin, but just as quickly saw her return to the neutral mask she wore when she was angry. The mask had slipped, had been completely broken during their coupling, and he was amazed that she had managed to fix it at all.

This was a new thing for Loghain Mac Tir. He had never been forcefully evicted from a lover's room before, but then Loghain had never made the mistakes he'd made here. This woman was a force of nature, a breed completely unto herself, and she had (rightfully) released her storm upon him.

Dutifully, he took his things from her. He opened his mouth to speak, but caught her sharp inhale of breath, and thought better of it. He had ruined many things tonight. He didn't want to ruin anymore. This was the last in a long line of insults that Loghain had thrown the Warden's way. He had indirectly killed her family, caused her conscription, lost her Alistair, and was no small part of the reason why she was still alive. Now, he had called her by another woman's name. It was perhaps the gravest insult of all: he had failed to acknowledge her identity.

There was no shame in his step as he left her room bruised, naked, and carrying his things…he was saving his disgrace for the quiet of his own room.

* * *

_Ohhhh, yes. Giggity. _

_Many thanks go out to Lady Winde, Buzz, and Windchime for keeping me on the straight and narrow with this chapter, and offering me sound advice as to the path I should take. And I suppose I should thank Seether too, for without FMLYHM playing on repeat in the background, I am not sure I could have handled this chapter appropriately. _

_Lots of love to the readers who are reviewing, alerting, and reading! Sometimes we get 500 visitors a day, and this is exciting! Sharing this tale is a huge joy, and it is nice to know it makes you happy!_


	30. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

The morning had been awkward. No, Loghain surmised, as he stood before the Empress of Orlais, her curiously green eyes looking him over head to toe, it had been _worse _than awkward.

Sleep had been fitful and unsatisfying. Though his body was well sated from the Warden's use of it, his mind had wrung itself into knots. What little rest he had managed was interrupted by dreams of Rowan and darkspawn. One particularly frightening figure spoke to him, begged him to be reasonable, but Loghain had awoken before the slender darkspawn could finish. In the pale, robin-egg blue of the dawn, he washed his old and beaten body, and then had vigorously scrubbed his armor. He tried to get rid of _her _scent, but every time he moved, he thought he caught a whiff of northern seas and rough winds. So much Highever sand, so much _Ferelden, _and yet _so much guilt. _

He had dressed without fanfare and slipped into his armor. His shoulders and back protested, but he was well used to fastening his plate. It did not take him long. He fixed the small braids at his temples, re-braiding his dark hair in the hope that he might appear presentable. While he didn't give a damn what the Empress of Orlais thought of him, he did care about how he represented his beloved country. He knew that Orlesians thought Fereldans were scruffy, unkempt farmers, and while Loghain did not deny that many of his countrymen were, he also knew that these men were proud and did honest, hard work. They did not lie flat on their backs, spread their legs, and let themselves be used by other nations to get their coin. Maker, he _hated _Orlesians and their trading habits.

When he had felt he was suitably prepared, he went to the Grey Griffon. He had expected to see his commander there wolfing down plates of sausages, tomatoes, and eggs as her wont when they were in well-stocked establishments, but she was nowhere to be found. He spotted several golden heads in the room, but none belonged to the indomitable woman that was his commander.

Unfortunately, as he had hovered by the door to the establishment, he'd caught the attention of the company they'd kept the night before. There at the table beside him had sat Serge, Flavius, Alaric and Vidar, and while he had quickly tried to move away, to let himself be hidden by his other brothers, it was a futile effort. None of the Grey Wardens in Val Royeaux, it appeared, felt the need to wear armor. He had noticed that, for all that they harassed poor Aurora about being alive, none of them seemed particularly worried about another uprising of the Archdemon. Two-faced, complacent bastards.

Flavius had stopped him, and had waved a hulking arm at him, shouting loudly at him over the din of the other Grey Wardens. "Hey! Hey, Mac Tir! Here! Hey, Fereldan!"

Loghain had tried to ignore the man. He'd elbowed aside men at the bar, catching the eye of a young woman and asking her what was available for breakfast. But he had been unable to ignore the Tevinter man for very long.

"Hey! Did you go deaf from all the fucking? Over here!"

Loghain had gritted his teeth, nodded when the woman repeated his request to him, and then turned to face the four men he didn't want to have any further interaction with. Sullenly, his heavily armored feet had stomped towards them.

Alaric, the young, redheaded mage had sent him a look of sympathy. "Rough night?"

Loghain had merely nodded in response. His words had been…an understatement. Unlike practical men, Chevaliers didn't seem to feel the need to wear a gorget, and thus the expanse of his purple and bruised neck lay open for all to view.

Serge had been seated with his back to him, but Loghain knew who he was just for the distinct aura of wrongness the man exuded. "Did you not find your bed comfortable?" He had asked mildly, raising his mug of tea for Loghain to see in a gesture of greeting.

"More like," Flavius had wagged huge, bushy blond eyebrows at him, "he found his commander's bed comfortable! Serge here had lots of complaints from Coralie and the other residents this morning. Your fucking kept up the entire house! Including," he then wrapped an arm around the nearby Alaric's shoulders, "poor Alaric here! Gave him a bit of educating, didn't you, Mac Tir?" He had turned to the mage who had grown red with embarrassment under his arm, "must have been great, you sly little bastard, living between their two rooms! Should have drilled a hole in the wall to see how hot Fereldan girls run! Look at his neck! Maker's black breath, looks like she held on tight!"

Loghain had sent the man a withering stare. "I'm not at liberty to talk about my commander in such a manner."

"You're meeting with Empress today, yes?" Serge's smooth voice had been a welcome contrast to Flavius's growling baritone.

Loghain had nodded, watching how Serge turned in his seat to study him with pitch-black eyes. "Brother, you look a sight. You'd embarrass your commander and Ferelden if you walked before the Empress of Orlais like that."

"Like what?" Loghain had frowned. He _knew _his armor looked fine. He had inspected it before he put it on. His braids were held tight to his temples, tied neatly behind his head to keep his hair out of his face. He couldn't help the way he _looked. _ The Maker had given him his nose and life had given him his sour expression.

"The bruises?" Serge's hand had waved in a circular motion around his face, "the little dark half moons?"

"Under your jaw," had continued Alaric, "and right below your ears. And around your neck…"

"Sounds like our little one-eyed survivor," Vidar had said slowly, lowering the mug that covered his stubbled and scarred lips, "is quite a wildcat. Did you involve the dog too?"

Loghain's hands had balled into fists. "I've killed better brothers-in-arms for less."

"Save your energy for the Empress and your wildcat, Fereldan," the archer had replied, taking a long swig of his drink. His brown hair had been exceptionally messy, hanging over his eyes like the fur of some great wolf dog.

"Vidar, don't be mean." Alaric had stood, stepping around Flavius and Vidar to stand behind Loghain. He had dropped tentative hands to the other man's jaw, and closed his eyes. His fingertips had glowed blue and white, the sparkle fading from his skin to Loghain's as the magic worked to ease Loghain's abused skin. The purple and red marks faded into his normal pallor. "Does he look better?"

All the men but Vidar had nodded. Vidar had just stared at Loghain with eyes the color of damp earth.

The timely arrival of the waitress had been Loghain's savior, and he'd taken his meal elsewhere in the room, excusing himself from the quartet who seemed determined to rib and remind him of last night. He had eaten quickly and without fuss, leaving as soon as he could to meet the Warden back at their common room.

She had been there waiting for him, just as she had said she would. She had neither greeted nor acknowledged him; she had merely led him to the palace. And she looked just as unconquerable and stubborn as she had appeared earlier, standing in her shining silver armor with her Grey Warden crest emblazoned into her breastplate, her decorative navy blue cloak spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She looked immaculate, with a scrubbed face, perfectly curled braids, and a radiant glow to her skin.

Truly, Loghain thought sadly, rage and sorrow did become her.

For all of what the two Grey Wardens had expected of the Empress of Orlais, nothing had truly prepared them for her glory. She had greeted them not in a flurry of ruffles and silk as they had anticipated, but instead came to them in a curious adaptation of what appeared to be the man's fashion at the Orlesian court. Her paned-hose were a spectacle of blue and white, while her tight fitting doublet encapsulate a body garbed in a shirt so fine it was nearly translucent. Her netherhose were made of beautiful white silk and displayed her shapely calves with an almost risqué touch. (And this was nothing compared to the provocative shape of her pearl-studded, calf's hide slippers.) Upon her mass of stylish golden curls sat a white cap, and over one painted green eye she wore…a pearl encrusted eye patch.

The Warden's jaw had _dropped _when she'd seen it.

"Ahhh!" she had risen from her throne, letting a jewel encrusted hand run over the head of the man who sat on a velvet pillow at her feet. "Here are my Fereldan visitors." She had walked towards them on her toes, hips swaying with each step. As she drew closer, her two Fereldan visitors began to evaluate the mystery that was the Empress of Orlais. "Everyone, leave us. Except you," she gave the seated man a wink, "you stay."

The Warden was the first to notice that the Empress was not a woman of impressive stature, being of a taller, stronger build. Loghain had found that much of the Empress's beauty came from her force of personality, her charisma, for while it might be said that she was a lovely woman, she was not _the _loveliest woman. She had a well-shaped face and trim nose, but her jaw hung shapelessly and her brow was too heavy to be considered feminine. She was also well painted, and the artful application of a brush had smoothed out features and blended imperfections that might otherwise detract from her loveliness.

Now that she was standing so close, with her hands on both of the Warden's cheeks, the Warden could see the full extent of the paint. There was more paint on the Empress than there was on the ceiling of the Denerim chantry, and the Warden found it needless on her. Surely, the Empress was capable of being a beauty without the white face paint, rouged cheeks, and overly arched brows? She looked very much like a doll made of the most exquisite porcelain but, to the Warden's taste, she looked wrong.

"You are so much prettier than I expected!" Celene said, parting petal-pink lips to reveal even white teeth. "And so much younger too. Goodness, but you look like you should still be swaddled and held tight to your father's chest!"

"The Maker works in mysterious ways, your Majesty," the Warden had replied carefully, unsure of what the Empress's praise meant. The last thing she wanted to do was make the Empress jealous; it was why she had kept her own appearance plain. Scrubbed and neat, but still plain.

"And your eye! You poor dear, I wear this," she touched her eye patch, "out of sympathy for you." After a few moments, she chuckled. "And because it is a fitting accoutrement to this costume."

"Your Majesty is too kind," the Warden gave the Empress of Orlais a small bow of her head. "But do not trouble yourself on my behalf. It was just my eye. Not my life."

The Empress narrowed her green eyes in sympathy. "Well balanced too. My, my."

The Warden ducked her head, saying nothing.

"And this handsome man!" Celene's green gaze found Loghain again. "You are Loghain Mac Tir, Hero of River Dane and father of Anora. You are, my dear man, a sight in that armor. So very powerful it makes you look, and fits you so well!" She placed a slim hand on his pauldron, a pale finger tracing the delicate etchings in the metal. "So well taken care of, even after all these years."

If Loghain could turn any more colors, then he'd probably be accused of lyrium addiction. He flushed pink in surprise, red in anger, purple in restraint, and then blue in suppression of his disgust. She was _touching _him, running her greasy, Orlesian fingers all over his polished armor.

Celene did not notice, as her eyes were too intent on studying the old armor and the hard body it encapsulated. "This style has gone out of fashion, but I think I may bring it back. Perhaps some nostalgia would do us all some good? Yes," the Empress nodded to herself. "I think it would. I must say, I am proud to see such armor worn by a fine man."

Loghain took deep, steadying breaths. His fingers twitched. How easy it would be, he knew, to just reach out and grip this woman by the neck. He could probably snap it before her pet had time to react. The thought brought him comfort.

The Empress registered his reaction as surprise. "Come now, Loghain Mac Tir, the past is the past. Ferelden won the war, and Orlais has never looked back since. It gave us many great tales to sing of, the least not being of Maric the Brave and his companions. Ah," she noticed the way Loghain's eyes narrowed at the mention of Maric, "but you do not believe me? How do I show you in good faith that Orlais, like a good lover, has moved on to trouble you no more? Tell me, Warden Commander," she turned to look at the Warden, "is he a lover of prestige and titles? Or must I warm his heart through other means?"

"He is a farmer," replied the Warden, considering only the Empress as she spoke. She looked not at Loghain. "Give him the means to protect his lands."

"Ah," Celene nodded her head in thanks, "you are very insightful. I had almost forgotten that Loghain Mac Tir, Ferelden's greatest general and strategist, had origins as humble as his manner. In Orlais, our _Chevaliers_ protect our farmlands_. _ I will bestow upon you this title, and give you my protection to protect your own lands, as well as those of your neighbors. Yes," Celene drew out the word, "Yes, this thing I shall do." She raised her hand, "Before my dear Marcus and the Warden Commander of Ferelden, I appoint you, Loghain Mac Tir, as a _Chevalier _of Ferelden. May you forever guard and shepherd your people. Let no soul take this title from you, and may the Maker protect you as long as you live."

Loghain's eyes darted to his commander's face, but she was staring impassively at the floor. He could have _sworn _he saw her Maker damned lips quirk upwards in a smile. No doubt, she was gloating at his discomfort. A Chevalier? _Him? _ How disgusting, and he could not repress the shudder of revulsion that rippled through his body. Celene must have seen it, for she laughed at him and only pawed at his jaw with her long fingers.

"Yes, I rather like the idea of you as a Chevalier. It lets you wear that armor with more distinction, and gives me hope to know that Ferelden will be in good hands. And now that it has been done," she turned a grave expression on both of them, "I would bid you tell me of all that has transpired in Ferelden, so that I may lend my hand in your restoration efforts."

"Restoration efforts, your Majesty?" Asked the Warden curiously, "Why would you trouble yourself? Our lands are not in such poor shape to trouble you."

"Pfft," Celene waved a hand, stalking back to her throne, gesturing for the Wardens to follow. "I have endeavored to be a good neighbor, and I have allowed my aid to be refused once," she turned over her shoulder and gave Loghain a pointed stare, "but I shall not let it be refused twice. It is an insult."

"No insult is intended," the Warden said, walking with measured steps behind the Empress. Loghain followed reluctantly at her heels. "We are just quite a proud people."

"Yes, and you love your dogs," the Empress intoned wryly, taking note of the fact that Dane was completely ignoring royal protocol and was busy sniffing around the throne.

"Were your Majesty to spend an hour with Dane, I am sure you would come to love him too," the Warden watched as Dane crept behind swan-winged throne of Orlais.

"My weakness has always been cats," Celene admitted, settling herself back on the red, swan-feather seat of her station. Again, she ran her hand over the silky brown hair of the man who had sat motionless and still at her feet. "But I am always willing to treat with others. You say he is called Dane?"

The Warden nodded.

"Dane," the Empress crooned, the words flowing richly from her tongue, "come here, my little Mabari."

Dane did not come to the call, having found something much more interesting behind the throne. His little tail wagged.

"He likes something back there," commented the Warden, watching her dog.

"Oh, he has probably found Merle." Celene chuckled, crossing her long legs as she reclined against her throne. "She enjoys hiding back there."

Indeed, Dane had found Merle. A sudden hiss and then a yelp of canine pain echoed through the hall, and Dane skittered head over heels to the Warden's feet while a very annoyed looking black cat with intelligent golden eyes sauntered from behind the throne. The cat stretched languidly by Celene's feet. It had a rounded midsection, giving it an almost barrel shaped appearance, but had long slender legs and dainty paws. Around its neck was a collar made of diamonds and silk.

"Come here, my pet," called Celene, patting the ample expanse of red cushion beside her.

Merle jumped, sending her claws into the cushion as she kneaded. Her purring was loud.

Dane gave the cat an indignant sniff, and the cat ignored him.

"Now, I believe," Celene gave the cat's back a long and languorous stroke, "you were telling me of Ferelden's needs?"

"Loghain," the Warden turned to her second, sending him a cool look, "would you like to tell the Empress about Ferelden?"

This was a truly damning situation. The Warden would speak truthfully to the Empress if Loghain did not answer, this much he knew. The Warden did not harbor the same mistrust as he did, and so would seek to take the Empress's help at face value. But if Loghain didn't want her to speak honestly, then he would have to say something, and that would place his already strained control under a great deal of tension. He would have to acknowledge this…traitorous, home-wrecking _harlot. _ And he would have to do so with grace.

The words tasted bitter in Loghain's mouth. "Surely, she already knows plenty about Ferelden," he ground out, trying to keep his tone even. He met Celene's sharp green eye sternly. "There are many fields. And rivers."

"Ahahahaha," Celene chuckled, clapping her hands, "you are quite funny. Yes, I know Ferelden is quite fertile. It is quite a good country in that regard."

The Warden gestured for him to continue, understanding that he was stalling, trying to make up his mind if he would lie, be honest, or return the question to her.

"I can think of nothing," Loghain said evenly, "that Orlais can offer to help."

"Oh no, that will not do." Celene gave a great, theatrical sigh. "I know you do not like me, Loghain Mac Tir, and this I understand. Orlais has wronged you in so many ways, and yet I have not wronged you, have I?" She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knee. "Have I?"

Loghain grimaced inwardly. She wanted an answer, but he wouldn't give her the dignity of one. She _knew _how she had wronged _him. _ He stared at her, his cold blue eyes battling her deep green. Let's see if she _dared _bring up her affair with Cailan.

Celene waited. And waited. And waited. The seconds stretched out into minutes, and the Empress of Orlais watched the Hero of River Dane stand unflinching and unyielding before her most terrifying of gazes.

"I," Celene said quietly, "rallied all my Chevaliers and Grey Wardens to fight for you, but you bid us not to come. I respected your decision. We camped at your border for weeks, waiting for your approval as word of Ostagar's utter failure reached us. And we stayed even longer, until news that you had hired Antivan Crows to kill the remaining Grey Wardens reached us. It was only _then _that we left. We did not risk entering without your permission, for fear that you would begin a war on three fronts: with your own nobles, against the Darkspawn, and against us."

She pointed a finger at him, the nail painted in a bright ruby lacquer. "I wasted time and money waiting on you, Loghain Mac Tir. I had an army willing to fight _for _your country, to keep it from becoming weak. Because do believe me when I say that if I truly had wished to invade Ferelden, I would not have done so with Chevaliers, like you so claimed. I would have let Ferelden be ravaged by the Blight, and then sent my troops to clean up the mess you left behind. And truly, your actions alone could have made that possible. So before you begin to vilify me, perhaps you might consider _thanking _me for being such a thoughtful, forthright woman."

The Warden bit the insides of her cheeks to stop from smiling, but could not help but feel a trickle of fear in her gut. The Empress had dismissed _everyone _from the room, but that did not mean that the guards could not enter and slay Loghain on the spot for riling up their beloved leader.

"Forthright?" Loghain's eyes narrowed, "Madam, you were the one carrying on a secret affair with my son-in-law!"

"King Cailan was a charming young man," Celene reclined back in her chair, waving the hand she had just pointed at Loghain in a droll manner, "but not exactly my taste." She watched Loghain's skin change to the color a tomato, "Handsome and playful, but perhaps not a particularly good candidate for Emperor. Oh," she scowled when she noticed Loghain's expression, "come, you know how these things work. My handsome princes never last long! They stop buying me these little things that I need," she admired her rings.

"Madam, you make a mockery of me," Loghain hissed.

The Empress sighed, and her jovial expression slipped away. "In all seriousness, Warden Loghain, it is true; I did correspond with your King. Was it _I _who made such overtures to him? No. You must remember, 'twas not I who contacted him first, nor was it I who suggested the visit to Ferelden. I am about as much a pawn in this as you."

"You must forgive me if I find your words about as hollow as the throne you're sitting on!" Loghain put a hand to his heart, where the notes Cailan and the Empress had written to one another lay nestled in a pocket, "You sought a permanent alliance between Orlais and Ferelden. I can think of no more _permanent _arrangement than marriage."

"A marriage," the Empress replied back, voice gentle and yet deceptively stern, "is broken just as easily as any treaty."

He did not have anything to refute that. Loghain was beginning to see the many masks that this woman wore. Her self-effacing, flirtatious persona was nothing more than a front to hide the sharp-tongued shrew that lurked beneath. He knew how this game was played; she had dismissed all her courtiers, but they had not truly vanished. They were lurking in the walls like fat spiders. They were eating up this information, filing it away for later use. Everything they heard, the Empress _intended _for them to hear. She had probably done the same in her missives. Her letters had been deliberately vague, so who truly knew the Empress's intent save herself? Cailan certainly didn't, having never met her, nor did Eamon, for he had never met her either.

"You are not convinced."

"I do not think I can be."

"And I suppose," the Empress continued, "that I cannot convince you to trust me on at least one thing?"

"No."

"Do you trust me then, Warden?" She turned her gaze to the Warden, who had waited patiently throughout this exchange.

"I trust you to make decisions that are in the best interest of your nation," replied the Warden, mindful of her words. "I do not know you well enough to say anything more on the matter."

"Well," Celene smiled, "that is a _reasonable _response, and I will not fault you for it. I am happy that Ferelden is raising such smart, young ladies. It is a shame that their times on the throne are so short. Or," she sent her appraising eye over the Warden's form once more, "never occur. I hear Dowager Queen Anora is now Teyrna of Gwaren?"

The Warden nodded, watching how Loghain seethed at the mention of his daughter from the corner of her eye.

"A shame that Maric had no daughters," Celene returned to stroking Merle's silky, black coat. "Only sons. I imagine they might have been formidable queens."

"Only the Maker knows for certain, your Majesty."

Loghain thought he felt his teeth cracking at the intensity with which he held his jaw clamped shut. He did not like being outmaneuvered by these two women, but it seemed at every turn they were manipulating and molding him.

"I shall let you converse with Marcus now, since I know this is the real reason you came to the palace." Celene's hands settled around the cat's midsection, lifting the small creature up to her chest. "Marcus, take them wherever you wish, but do bring our beautiful Lady Grey to me once you are done. I would very much like to get to know her better."

"Your Majesty's will be done," said the brown haired man, who was apparently Marcus. "I will take them to the courtyard."

"As you like," replied the Empress, standing with Merle. "I shall be in my study." She sauntered away from them.

Marcus stood in one fluid movement, his body unfurling like leafy stalk. Marcus was an older man, with silky brown hair that was just turning grey at his temples, and a well-groomed goatee. He reminded the Wardens of an older Teagan Guerrin, if only for the cut of his facial hair and the gentle waves of his hair. His jaw was wide, his cheek bones high, and his eyes a bright blue. They were not an icy blue, as Loghain's were. They were instead a warm blue, like the sky heated by the summer sun. They flicked between the two wardens, narrowing slightly. "Follow me."

But even as he spoke, there was nothing truly _warm _about him. The color of his eyes said nothing of the man's personality, which appeared to be a strange combination of typical Orlesian laissez faire and a severity that the Wardens were beginning to associate with the Anderfels and their Wardens. The two Fereldans watched him walk towards them with a lazy swagger, but noticed how his eyes belied his apparent ease. The quick, piercing gaze never rested long on their faces. His eyes darted about the room; scanning walls, alcoves, the ceiling, the floor…he looked as a man hunted.

He let his shoulder knock against the Warden's as he brushed past her. At a quick glance, he was her equal in height and weight.

The Warden gave a small grunt of displeasure at the contact, turning with the momentum of his body's slight pressure against hers.

Marcus led them back the way they had come, taking them out of the grand and gilded throne room with its pink marble tiles, Andraste-shaped columns, and plush banners of Celene's house. One could almost forget that there were noble houses _other _than the Empress's by the amount of decorative standards and coats of arms she had adorning her palace. In the hallways, the entry chamber, along the battlements, soaring high above the castle, everywhere one looked they could see the white swan of the empress soaring high over a golden sun.

As he said he would, the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux led his guests to the grand courtyard of the palace. Here, nestled amidst high walls of stone and secrets, the gardens of the palace sprawled and spread like a sleeping maiden. Trees bountiful with fruit lined avenues and boulevards, while the tall shrubs created maze-like walkways for visitors to traverse. It was through one of these mazes that Marcus walked, taking the Wardens into a world of deep and leafy green. It was clearly a path that he had walked before, for he led them through a series of turns that had them standing in the middle of a cobble-stoned alcove near an impossibly large divider wall.

In this little semi-circle room of shrubbery and stone, there were a series of benches. Marcus at himself down on a bench dug into the divider wall, resting his head in the shadows of the stone. "Warden Commander of Ferelden Aurora Cousland, and her second, Loghain Mac Tir," he spoke in deep, thoughtful tones. He had an Orlesian accent, though there was an undercurrent of another accent that clipped and scoured his words. "It is good that you have come to see me."

"Your second, Andraste, bid us visit you," explained the Warden, "she thought you might have questions." She took a seat on one of the benches resting against a leafy wall. She did not want to sit with her back to an open path. Loghain did the same, sitting opposite her. Dane came to rest on the floor by her feet.

"Ah, questions, yes," Marcus chuckled low in his throat. "I have many of those."

"You may ask them," the Warden said, curbing the weariness she felt. So many _questions._ "That is, after all, why we are here."

"You will allow me to be blunt, yes?" He leaned forward, resting a black-clad forearm on his knee. "I am sure you tire of the intrigue."

The Warden could only nod.

"How did you defeat the Archdemon?"

"With my sword." The Warden mourned its absence, having been advised by her apartment's retainer that she would never gain entrance to the palace if she came armed. "I decapitated the beast."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "And how did you do that?"

"Dane," she gestured to the Mabari, "was trapped in the wreckage of a ballista. I used one of the springs to my advantage, letting it give me enough height and momentum to first reach the thing's head, and then cut straight through it."

"Daring." Val Royeaux's Warden Commander seemed impressed. "And what happened then?"

"I felt energy rush through me. It was like," the Warden paused for a few moments, trying to remember what dying felt like, "fire was crawling under my skin. All around me air and magic screamed, and I felt myself go numb."

"And then?"

"And then nothing." She sighed. "I awoke several weeks later."

"You suggest you merely fell unconscious?"

The Warden shook her head. "Oh no, I'm not suggesting that I fell unconscious, I'm _telling _you I fell unconscious."

"You are certain that there was nothing else?" Marcus's blue eyes regarded her intensely, "You saw nothing? Did you dream?"

"No," the Warden pursed her lips as she tried to recapture those fragments of her life, but they slipped out of her fingers like grains of sand. "There is nothing. There were no dreams, no visions in the maelstrom. Just a sense of relief."

"Relief? Yours?"

"Of course, mine." The Warden raised a shapely eyebrow. "Killing the Archdemon is the culmination of our efforts."

Marcus shook his head, letting out another small chuckle. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You are quite a puzzle. The first Grey Warden to survive slaying an Archdemon, when your soul is required to, how would say it, 'seal the deal.' Do you have a soul? Did you have a soul at the time you slew the Archdemon?"

The Warden's eyebrow rose higher. "How does one live without their soul?"

"Oh," Marcus smiled, "there are ways."

"I am quite positive that my soul was still intact. I'm an upstanding, practicing Andrastian." For the most part, the Warden was.

"So is Serge," Marcus's lips quirked higher into a smile that was altogether too sinister, "but in different ways, I think, than what you and I suggest. But, egh," he ran a hand through his hair, "here I must search my mind for all the things that set you apart from your Blight-ending forebears. Perhaps then I can reason out your riddle."

"I assure you," the Warden said quietly, her good eye looking deep into Marcus's, "the Archdemon is _gone._" Urthemiel, however, was not, but Marcus was not asking about an Old God, he was asking about an _Archdemon. _There was a fundamental difference between the two. "I cannot say it any more clearly than that."

"A part of me wants to believe that, but another part of me cannot. We Grey Wardens are entrenched in our history. There are expectations of us, things that we are required to do. We die." He outstretched an arm to the Warden and pulled back his sleeve, revealing a pitted and scarred forearm from a long life of battling darkspawn, "it requires _blood._ Our blood. _In death, sacrifice._"

Loghain watched their exchange silently, eyes darting between the speakers. Truly, he did not know what the other Grey Wardens hoped to get out of his commander, nor did he know exactly what she could say in response to convince them. Her arguments sounded weak in comparison to their tradition, and the scope of their tradition was very…limited. He was not sure what he would say if he were in her position. Most likely the same things. And if she was in his position…well. She would probably do as he was, trying to keep a low profile. Loghain most certainly did not want to become involved in this endless game of questions.

"Marcus, let us speak frankly. What sort of answer are you looking from me?" The Warden raised her hands in a gesture of hopeless confusion. "I have told you what I know. I fully _intended _to die. What sort of recompense are you going to seek from me for living?"

"I?" It was Marcus's turn to raise an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I have the authority to ask of you anything?"

She frowned in confusion. "This is your jurisdiction. I would suspect you would have the authority to act as you saw fit."

"I cannot even wipe my nose with my sleeve without permission." Marcus looked disgusted at the situation. "Even should I need to take necessary action against you, I would only be able to do so with the First's permission."

"Is that feeling mutual amongst all Warden Commanders?" asked the Warden. "Or does the First just monitor Val Royeaux because it is the largest of the Grey Warden strongholds in Orlais?"

Marcus shrugged. "I have a suspicion it is just Val Royeaux. It has been this way ever since I took command ten years ago."

"Well, if it helps you at all, I can leave for Weisshaupt by the week's end." Such an idea was not disagreeable, and it lifted her spirits to think that she might soon be free of this place. As grand as Orlais was, and as interesting as Grey Warden life had so far proved to be, she desperately wanted to be back in Ferelden. She gave Marcus her most charming smile, "I do not want to impose or cause you anymore trouble than is necessary. I could even leave tomorrow, if you wished?"

"Ah, no," the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux shook his head, "that would not do. I would rather you stayed until my second returns. Better for both the First Warden's sake of mind and my own to know that you are safe and easily reachable. Surely," Marcus's frank and friendly tone did little to hide the intent of his words: he did not trust her, "you can enjoy my hospitality for a little while longer, yes?"

"Oh," the Warden gave an inward wince at the rope this man was tying around her neck, "I suppose we can, though I would not wish to tarry too long abroad. Remember, I do have a country of my own to return to." Appealing to his sense of duty would probably have little effect, but it was worth a try. He was a Warden Commander; he _had _to know how difficult it was to lead his men while away.

"Meh," Marcus made a small, uncommitted noise in the back of his throat. "Andraste will have your little home well managed in your absence."

"That is not the point," the Warden shifted forward, her gaze intense. "She will be returning to Orlais with her report, and bringing her Grey Wardens back with her. Who will manage Amaranthine when we are all away? This is my -"

"Duty?" Marcus finished for her, amused. "I think your duty right now is to answer my questions and learn what it means to be a Grey Warden. You can then impart your new-found knowledge to your fledgling stronghold, yes?"

It felt like the Warden had been slapped, and she felt the sting of Marcus's words across her cheeks. It almost made her eyes water. She folded deceptively complacent hands in her lap, her armored fingers rearranging themselves against the bright metal of her greaves. She gave Marcus a schooled smile. "I am certainly learning more and more about what it means to be a Grey Warden every day." It meant suspicion. Fear. Loneliness. Bitterness.

Loghain had to stifle his laughter at that. To be a Grey Warden, one had to be insular and suspicious of all those people who did not fit the mold. It was a good place for Loghain, but not a good place for the Lady.

Marcus clucked his tongue in reproach, "Your venom, it tastes like honey." He laughed a rich, deep sound, when he saw the Warden's mild surprise. "Do not look so surprised that I know. I sip from cups sweeter and more dangerous than yours daily. Your delicate tactics are transparent when compared to the thick and sticky paint of the Orlesian court."

Uncomfortable with her apparent transparency, the Warden made a sudden change in the conversation to send Marcus off-guard. "What is your relationship to the Empress?"

"I am what she needs me to be." Marcus inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Councilor, partner, explorer, spy, friend, lover… It changes. She has many requirements, and I am always happy to meet her challenges."

"How did you meet her?"

Marcus considered the Warden's question. "My Empress has always been a great supporter of the Grey Wardens, but she did not seek me out personally until the Blight in Ferelden. She wanted to know if it was truly a Blight. After that initial meeting, she kept me as her adviser in all matters Darkspawn related."

"Do you love her?" the Warden asked, letting her eyes drop to the hollow of Marcus's throat before bringing them back to his face once more.

He sounded almost sad when he responded. "One cannot love the Empress, for she has no face underneath the masks that she wears. She is shapeless and hollow, a vessel filled with sweet words and poison that one can drink from if they dare. It is only possible to love the _idea _of the Empress." He sighed. "I am an old man now, coming to the end of my days. I am besotted by women with wealth and power, as I think any hot-blooded man wasting away might be."

Before the Warden could open her mouth to speak, Marcus stood. The scrape of his faded leather breeches on the stone echoed around the small space. "Come," he said, "I shall take you to her so that you may bask in her glory. She is both swan and sun, so expect to be pecked and burned before you leave here today, if she lets you leave at all."

The Warden tapped Dane with her foot, indicating that he should rise, and Dane gave a wheezing grunt in protest. The great war dog shook himself as he stood, stretching long, powerful limbs. Loghain watched him, wishing that he could do the same. His shoulders and back were still aching, and this armor was pinching him in all the wrong places. Since Celene had made him a Chevalier, the armor felt _wrong. _ It was too tight across the chest, to stiff in the pauldrons, and too thickly armored around his knees. It was, as he was, an antiquated reminder of war.

Marcus led them back through the maze, and both Wardens made a careful note of the path that he chose. It was different from the path they had come down, for Marcus did not lead them back to the courtyard proper, but instead to a smaller courtyard and a side gate out of the palace.

"This is where you leave us, Loghain Mac Tir. Just go straight and you will find the rest of the Grey Wardens." Marcus swept a hand past the open guard post, indicating the path. Past the avenue of guards at their posts and well-kept storefronts, was a gate, and beyond it there was another. "Three gates down to home."

Loghain nodded, and moved to leave, but found Marcus's hand firmly gripping his shoulder. "You and I will need to set aside time to speak also, _Chevalier._"

The word cracked like a whip across Loghain's senses, and his blood ran coldly through his veins. "You know where I am," he all but spat out, shaking away the Warden Commander's hand. He did not expect a farewell from his own commander, but was surprised to see that he got one anyway.

"I will see you tonight at dinner, Loghain. Do not get lost in the city."

By the smile she sent his way, Loghain realized that this was for the sake of appearances. His clever commander would not let the Orlesian Grey Wardens see that there was a fracture within the ranks of the Ferelden Grey Wardens. She would not let his weakness, or her weakness, compromise Ferelden's interests. He respected her for that.

"Of course, Commander," he replied, nodding his head at her directions. "See you tonight."

Dane barked his farewell at Loghain.

The two Grey Warden Commanders did not wait for Loghain to disappear out of sight before leaving. Instead, Marcus placed an arm on the Warden's shoulder and pulled her along the castle's wall until they reached a servant's entrance. It was apparent that Marcus could wander the palace at will, for he had limitless access to all rooms and doors, it seemed. No lock could stand in his way, nor could any angry servant. And as he led her up stairs and through brightly lit corridors lined with beautiful portraits and tapestries, the Warden was beginning to get a sense of the incredible power this man wielded.

"If the Empress," Marcus said quietly, leading her by hand now through narrow walkways, "offers you something to drink, drink it. If she bids you to sit, sit. But if she bids you to wear trinkets, do not. Splendor is hers alone. She will ask you of history and politics, and it is wisest if you answer honestly. If she asks you of art, it is better to agree with her opinions. Never feign knowledge with the Empress, for she will flay you alive with her tongue if she catches you ignorant. Do these things, and her grace shall be yours."

The Warden mulled over Marcus's curious words. Had he learned these lessons the hard way, or had he observed and spied her mannerisms and made the judgments himself? She could not come to a clear decision about the matter.

Marcus left her standing in front of a beautifully carved door. The pictures in the wood depicted scenes of a great hunt. Men and women on horseback held spears and bows in their hands, aiming at fleet-footed deer that ran through a thick forest. Dogs danced and darted through the horses' legs. The Warden's hand came out to touch one of the riders when the door was pulled open, revealing the Empress in the same resplendent loveliness she wore in the throne room.

"Your Majesty," the Warden inclined her head. "I am here as you requested." Dane skulked behind her legs, rubbing his broad back against her knees.

"And glad I am of it," the Empress turned from the door, allowing the Warden room to enter. "Do you like my study?" She paid no mind to the Mabari, who was rooting his way around the room, nose to the ground.

The Warden would not have called the room a study. She would have called it a library. Books upon books of various widths and sizes were lined on shelves. Their canvas spines with their glittering gold letters were a tempting sight for the tired-eyes of any book lover. Those walls of the huge room that were not covered in books were papered in gold leaf that magnified and reflected the light of the carefully placed candles. The Warden turned about the room, admiring the impressive height of the ceiling and the plush furniture. It was nothing like the library at Denerim, which was musty and old from disuse. This place was polished, tidy, and gave the distinct impression that it was well used.

"I like it very much," the Warden replied honestly, "would that the libraries of Denerim and Highever could match this."

The Empress chuckled, lowering herself to a couch with luxurious pillows of the richest red. "I spent much time putting this place together. It is where I come when I need to escape. My cousin used to use this room for his wild orgies and dark rites. As you can see," she smiled, "my tastes are much milder. I take my orgies to my bed chamber; I need no other room for them."

The Warden put a hand to her mouth to stop the sudden bubble of shocked laughter.

"Oh, should I not be scandalizing you?" The Empress reclined on her seat insolently, lifting her slim legs onto the couch beside her. She gestured for the Warden to sit at any of the other nearby chairs. "Sit, Lady Grey."

"Were all these books yours before you took the throne," the Warden chose a plain wooden bench on which to sit, fearing that her armor might tear and pluck at the beautiful fabric of all the other chairs.

"Not all of them, no." Celene removed the pearl encrusted eye patch and vigorously scratched at her eyelid. "Itchy, yes? How do you bare it?"

"With as much as grace as I can muster," replied the Warden, having not found much physical discomfort with the eye patch. "I hear it makes me quite frightening, and such a thing is not unwanted in what I do." She touched her eye patch for emphasis.

"I would think that with the Blight over, you would wish to inspire less fear. This should be a happy time for us all. How sad it must be," the Empress mused, "that you are forced to deny yourself even that."

"Even in peace, the Grey Wardens are vigilant."

Celene shrugged. "Vigilance does not necessitate a loss of happiness."

"I think many of the Grey Wardens are happy, your Majesty. You need only visit them to know that."

"But you are not happy."

"I am content," replied the Warden quietly. She lifted her chin, "though I am not complacent." Dane came to sit at the floor by her feet, and the Warden rested a gauntlet on his head. "I do not need to be happy to do what is required of me."

Celene offered the pearl-studded eye patch to the Warden, letting the long black strip dangle between her fingers. "For you."

The Warden shook her head. "I could not possibly, Empress."

Celene chuckled, the sound gliding through the air like pearls rolling across the Warden's skin. "Oh, do not be so modest."

"No, truly," the Warden's hands remained firmly on her lap.

The Empress sighed. "My Lady of the Grey, these little acts of humility and modesty are lost on me. I am not your Second, who you can dupe with your pretty smiles and slender limbs, nor am I a countryman of yours, willing to believe in the virtues of my hero. From one player to another, do take the gift and wear it so that you may be as dazzling as you are brave."

The Warden was shocked by the Empress's blunt honesty. "Why would you think this is an act?"

"Because I am the same as you," the Empress sat forward, circling her arms around her knees in an almost childlike manner.

The Lady did not quite believe this to be true. The Empress was an entirely different creature than the Warden. Her skill lied in her beguiling beauty, the promise of marriage, and the fluidness of her tongue. The Warden had her tongue, but also the strength of her sword arm.

"Ah, you raise your eyebrows because you do not believe me, but I know you. You are me, just as I am you." The Empress's eyes were a dazzlingly green, intensified by the reflected golden light of the room. She pinned the Warden to her seat, gazing at her from over the tops of her knees. "The long road you have traveled is one that I have walked, though this power was my choice. I took it hot and screaming from my cousin, where as you had the hot coals thrust into your hands unwilling. But it matters not," her voice dipped into a hoarse whisper, "for both our hands were burnt regardless of our choices."

The Empress continued, stretching forward so that her lithe body was almost clambering over the arm of the couch to reach the Warden, sinuous arm stretched out to touch her hand. She lay perched over the edge of the couch, strong stomach and heaving chest supported by the plush curl of wood and fabric. "Come close, my dear, for I see you in a kindred spirit."

The Warden, bewitched against her will by the supple and intoxicating Empress, did as she was commanded. She shifted from her seat on the bench, coming to rest on her knees before the Empress of Orlais.

Celene cupped the Warden's cheeks in her hands, raising the younger woman's face to her own. She brought her own face close, so that they spoke nose to nose, their breaths comingling in the air between them. "You have navigated a river of men's ambitions, climbed their fragile egos, and pandered to their fantasies to abate and appease their pride, yes?" She waited for the Warden to nod, feeling the pull of the younger woman's jaw against her hands. "You have bent your knee to them, if only to gain their favor so that they will later bend their knees to you in turn. You have accepted their judgments, their compliments, because you must. You have suffered insult and injury to pride to ensure that your plans are fulfilled."

With a gentle flick of her thumb, Celene flipped the Warden's eye patch away from her face. "You have endured much, all because you must."

The Warden frowned in a mixture of horror and shock. She was amazed at how easily the Empress saw through her. How much the Empress _knew _her. "How can you admit all this so freely?" She whispered in rushed tones, "Do you not fear that people are listening?"

The Empress smiled, and it was a beautiful and terrible thing. "Why would they listen to things they already know?" She smoothed her thumbs over the apples of the Warden's cheeks, "these men made their beds long ago. They sleep deeply in them, and dream only ignorant dreams. They do it because they know to point a dagger at me would be to point a dagger at them." She laughed a ferocious laugh that was both girlish and wicked and it blew against the Warden's face like a desert wind. "They have stains that not even the Maker can remove, but that they entrust me to hide." She spoke with contempt, an open disdain for those who had vaulted her to power. "So, let them listen. They know I shall not be quiet when I meet my end, for we have done so many terrible things together."

Ferelden's Warden Commander could do little more than stare entranced at the older woman. Each of Celene's words enveloped her and awed her. There was no wonder why Marcus was enthralled with her, why her subjects thought her so beloved. This woman was like the moon pulling on the tides; she was utterly bewitching. Every lick of her velvet words ignited a fierce passion to act, to be rallied.

Celene's face softened and she smiled fondly at the Warden. "The depravities that you and I have had to endure, and will continue to endure, will be endless in our quests to see this world shaped as it should be."

"And how would you see this world shaped?" asked the Warden, every muscle in her body coiled tightly as the words of the Empress rang clear through her soul. They were a clarion call to her blood, acknowledging the strength and fire in her bones, the perseverance that had dragged her from the womb of Highever to the highest spires of Denerim to die. She had shaped Ferelden, brought it back from the brink of ruin. She was a Kingmaker. She was an Arlessa. She was a Commander. She was a Cousland.

"I would see a vast and prosperous empire, where light, and culture, and learning are revered. All would read, and no book should ever be burnt." Her green eyes never let the Warden's. "I would see His name on their lips, their hands full of food, and their hearts full of love. Every man, woman, and child would live in peace and security. Fear and sorrow would be mastered."

It was a simplistic and idealistic vision, but the Empress's eyes sparkled so brightly as she spoke, that it was hard for the Warden not to believe that she meant it. "A beautiful vision."

"And one that I will try for until I die." The eye patch, long forgotten, now dangled once more from the Empress's fingers, tickling the Warden's nose. "Wear it. Wear it and remember me, your Orlesian cousin who shares your troubles and your woes."

With a reluctant and shaking hand, the Warden reached up and took it. It felt small and fragile in the metal embrace of her gauntlet.

"You are strong, Aurora Cousland," the Empress placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before releasing her, "let no man dim your shine. Let no cloud pass over your sun. No matter what trinkets they bribe you with," she placed her hand around the Warden's gauntlet that clutched the eye patch, "no matter what honeyed words they would have you drink, never forget that when all is dust and ash, all you will have is yourself."

The Warden nodded solemnly, taking the words of the world's most powerful woman to heart.

"Now," Celene pulled back, placing her hands on her lap, "do you play tennis?"

As the Warden considered Celene's offer to play the sport of kings, Loghain was on the other side of Val Royeaux, in the middle of a heated debate with the merchant the Warden had found yesterday.

Loghain desperately wanted to make amends. It felt like rats were eating him from the inside out, and his soul ached like his body. He had gone barely one day without the warmth of her smile and the lightness of her touch, and he was already suffering. He felt despondent, as he had when Maric had gone to sea. The sunny and easy mirth that came to both Maric and the Warden was something of a staple to Loghain's well-being. He could learn to live in his self-contained darkness, and he had after Maric died. Yet, his months with the Warden had only proven that he preferred warmth and companionship.

And it was only now, after she had stripped him of his dignity and his pride that he came to understand it.

So there he was, bargaining with some Orlesian penny pincher, in a futile attempt to curry her favor once more. It was a great fall for Loghain Mac Tir, worse than his defeat at the Landsmeet. He had been reduced to nothing more than a spurned lover, stooping and scraping for affection. Yesterday, he thought nothing of the combs she had admired. Now, he thought of them as nothing more than the tools of his salvation.

"Maker's breath, man!" he said, running a gauntlet through his thick hair, "speak the king's tongue!"

The merchant chattered back to him in his frantic Orlesian, waving his hands widely in the air.

"I just want to buy the combs, you stupid dolt!" Loghain pointed at the combs the Warden had spied yesterday, then pointed to his money purse.

But as what had happened before, the merchant picked up another set of combs, ones that were different from the ones Loghain had indicated, and offered them for him to look at.

"No! I don't want to see those, I want _those _ones!"

"Erm…" a soft voice said from behind Loghain's massively armored bulk, "are you having trouble?"

Loghain looked over his shoulder to see a sister from the chantry standing behind him, her gold and orange robes soft in the light of the sun. She was an older woman, with a wrinkle-worn face that reminded him of Wynne. "It is none of your concern." He turned back to the merchant, who glowered at him.

"It is my concern; you are causing quite a scene." The sister came to stand beside him, placing a small, white hand on his arm. "What is it you were trying to buy?"

"Those combs." Loghain pointed to the pillow that held the gold and pearl-studded combs shaped like two parts of a laurel wreath.

The sister pointed to the pillow, and chattered away in Orlesian. She smiled at the merchant, who smiled back at her, pointing between the combs and Loghain. "He says," the sister explained, "that he is holding the combs for the young lady you were with yesterday."

"Why would he be doing such a thing?" Loghain frowned at the man. "I'm _buying _them for her!"

The sister relayed Loghain's answer to the merchant, who did not seem particularly convinced. "He wants to know why."

Loghain gave a frustrated sigh. "Why should he _care _why I'm buying her the combs? I'm giving him business."

The merchant chattered something to the sister, and she gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "I am afraid I cannot repeat what he just said, save that he says these types of combs may only be given to a lover. It is not appropriate for a father to give them to his daughter."

"_What_?" Loghain pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes tightly. "She is _not _my daughter. And yes, she _is _my lover." Rather, she _was _his lover. He did not expect her to unfurl her petals to him again, nor would he ask her to try.

The sister, with a blush on her cheeks, told the merchant this. The merchant sighed, and shook his head, muttering something that probably meant, "too good for him," and then placed the pillow before Loghain's face.

"He says they'll be twenty sovereigns."

Loghain's eyebrows shot into his head. That was much more than he bargained for. He had counted his coins last night, after the Warden had given them to him in the common room before she'd gotten ready for dinner. If he bought the coins at face value, he would have thirty sovereigns left, and they still needed to buy supplies for the journey to Weisshaupt, and then supplies for the trip back to Ferelden. It was a steep price. "Tell him I'll give him ten sovereigns."

And so the sister did, and the merchant laughed. "He says you are very funny, and surely think higher of your lady than that."

"Fifteen sovereigns," he growled, narrowing his eyes at the merchant, who smiled insolently from ear to ear. "And I do."

The sister spoke, and the merchant shrugged, pushing the pillow to Loghain and stretching out his hand for the coin.

Loghain reached into his purse, plucking out the thick, gold coins that were chillingly cold in the palm of his hand. He handed them to the merchant, watching him bite down on each one to assure their authenticity, before smiling happily and saying a very fluent, "Thank you," in the king's tongue. Loghain turned to the sister, and gave her a smile of gratitude, though from the way she flinched, it clearly came out as grimace. "Thank you, Sister."

"Think nothing of it, sir," she replied, tipping her head in farewell at him. "May the Maker guide your path."

With a delicate movement, Loghain plucked out the handkerchief that he kept inside one of the pouches at his hip. It was a worn square of cloth, and had been given to him by Celia the first time he had left for Denerim without her. She had sewn the thing herself, had even embroidered his initials into a corner of it. The lace had yellowed from age, but he had never used the thing. He'd merely kept it with him as a token of good luck and his lady's favor.

Now he was using it to protect the combs. He carefully wrapped the gold and pearl decorations in the silky fabric of the handkerchief, folding them in tightly so their delicate golden leaves would not bend or break while they rode in his belt pouch.

Walking back to the Grey Warden district, he could not stop the way his hands would come to rest protectively over the leather pouch that hid his lady's prize. He had to reassure himself that his gift was still there, that a pickpocket had not stolen the pouch or that it hadn't somehow slipped from his belt as he walked.

With the little trinket safely in his protection, he felt his unease begin to evaporate. As he opened the door to the lodgings where and the Warden stayed, he was beginning to feel happy, excited even, though not an overjoyed excited. He was hopeful. Happy in his hopefulness. The combs had impressed her yesterday; there was no reason why they would not impress her today. The situation was impossibly clear to him: she would see the gift, accept his heartfelt apology, and perhaps they could put the previous night's gaffe behind them. She could be his commander again, rather than his enemy. Maybe she might even be his friend.

He bounded lithely up the stairs, taking them two by two. He had been gone for most of the day, since he had gotten lost trying to find the merchant. Surely, she was back by now. He knocked on her door, but there was no answer. He knocked again, but still there was no answer. Obviously, she had not returned, and Loghain returned to the common room to wait for her.

Coralie came and went, lighting the fire in the hearth and the candles around the room before she slipped out for the evening, returning to her family elsewhere. She did not meet Loghain's eyes, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when she saw him. Other Wardens made their way in and out of their rooms, also paying Loghain no heed as they went about their business. Most were likely departing for the Grey Griffon for their dinner.

It was only when the sun had turned the sky a deep purple that the Warden and Dane returned. Loghain's eyes darted across her face and hair, noticing the glint of gems and jewels on her person. She had come back to him wearing more jewelry than she had when she left Ferelden. Even Dane was wearing a diamond-studded collar. The Empress, it seemed, was a generous woman.

At once, his hand went to the pouch where the combs rested. He opened his mouth to speak, but she had already turned from him and was moving up the stairs. He followed her, careful not to crowd her or touch her. He loomed behind her as she stood at her door, fishing through a pouch for the key to its lock. She made a small hum as she found it, and slipped it into the keyhole, turning it in the lock. Dane twirled about his legs, rubbing against him happily.

Loghain followed her into her quarters, and found her bed still without a sheet. If it got cold tonight, she would likely freeze. He meant to give it back to her. He watched Dane clamber onto her bed, his great big paws leaving tracks of dirt from the street on the rush mattress, but the Warden didn't seem to pay him any mind. Serenely she took off her cloak, and then began to remove the tiny ornaments that studded her hair.

"Is there something you needed, Loghain?" she asked over her shoulder, hands perched atop her head.

Her voice was neutral, and it was a start.

"I…" Loghain's hand returned to the pouch. "I wanted to talk. About last night."

"And I do not," she replied, turning from him. "So, you can leave."

"I have something for you," he blurted. Loghain cursed himself for being so poor at apologies. Celia's handkerchief found its way in his hand, and before he could stop himself, he was standing before the Warden and offering the combs to her.

"What is this?" she asked, her grey eye narrowed in suspicion. Men bearing gifts…wasn't this what the Empress had warned her of earlier?

"It's a gift," he explained, "I want you to forget last night. I want you to accept me back in your graces - to give me your graces - so that we can be as we were."

"Give you my graces? Are you," the Warden asked, shocked, "_bribing _me? Do you think a paltry bauble is going to _buy _you back into my favor, into my _bed_? I don't accept!" She pushed the handkerchief back into his hands.

"No!" Loghain cursed. "You stupid chit! It isn't -"

"Stupid chit?" The Warden hissed, cutting him off. "You're right, I am. This was my mistake, and I'll not make it again. Just go," she turned from him, stalking towards her wardrobe with her cloak in hand, "before you make this worse."

Loghain's hand clenched into a fist. "Can't you -"

Her hand stilled on the dull wood. "I said _go, _Loghain!"

The former Teyrn of Gwaren grunted in frustration, tossing his present onto the bed beside Dane. "You're a fool!" he said, shaking his head, but he was not sure whom he was talking to, the Warden, or himself.

The Warden stood frozen by the wardrobe, listening to Loghain's heavy footsteps and cursing as he left. The door slammed shut behind him. She turned to look at the door, to make sure he was truly gone, when she noticed the handkerchief that Loghain had tried to offer her earlier resting on the bed beside Dane. She scowled and moved towards it, picking up the bundle of soft fabric. She felt something hard beneath her fingers, and a temptation struck her to reveal Loghain's gift.

However, she knew if she sated her curiosity, she would be opening herself up to a future of vulnerabilities and disappointments. Loghain had committed an egregious sin last night. He could not buy his way back between her thighs or into her heart so easily. She was not a capricious maiden. Perhaps _yesterday _she had been, but not _today_. She needed time to think and to reevaluate her priorities. If she looked at his present, if she acknowledged it, she honestly did not know what she might do. She might fling herself into his arms, beg him to forgive her cruelty, and leave her heart bare to his taciturn and boorish nature. Alternatively, she might kill him. Truth be told, she did not know which of the two options pleased her the most.

And so she placed Loghain's little parcel into her vanity drawer, shutting it out of her sight, and out of her mind.

* * *

_And we move up and onwards to chapter 24!_

_So, uh, wow! There was a surprising amount of feedback about the last chapter...at least double the responses of what a posting normally yields. Everyone just crawled out of the woodwork on that one! If only all chapters could be so exciting. To those of you who are reviewing, following, and alerting, you have my undying thanks! I'm always happy to hear your thoughts. _

_Obligatory adoration must be given to Lady Winde, my indefatigable beta. I hope you have a wonderful time at the GDC, and when you are gone, I shall whip up some Vidar smut just for you. _


	31. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and Andraste had not returned from Ferelden or sent word to Marcus. At the Warden's urging, Serge penned a missive to the First in Weisshaupt, explaining the delay. Weisshaupt sent back no response. The Warden and Loghain lived in a tenuous purgatory of mistrust and silence, waiting on word to arrive from two fronts. They were forbidden from leaving Val Royeaux. They could not even step foot outside of the massive city's limit. They were, for lack of a better word, prisoners. The walls of Val Royeaux were their bars, and Marcus was their jailor.

Each day, Dane, Loghain and the Warden would rise from their beds, take an uncomfortable breakfast in the Grey Griffon, and await Serge for news. And each day, Serge entered the Grey Griffon and merely shook his head at them before turning to his own business.

After breakfast, the Warden would receive a summons to appear at the castle and present herself before the Empress. The same messenger would arrive in his royal blue tunic and garishly red trousers, handing the Warden Commander of Ferelden her missive to attend the Queen personally. Without fail, the Warden and Dane made the long journey to the castle, where the Warden spent her mornings and afternoons playing cards with Dane resting at her feet, or tennis with the Queen. Most days she completely forewent her arms and armor, finding the plate too cumbersome to swing a racquet in.

At first, the invitation to attend the Empress had also been extend to Loghain. But after his ten or so declines, the messages stopped inquiring after him. Loghain spent his days strolling around the shops in the district, doing his best not to stray too far in case he got lost. On occasion, he would take to one of the training dummies in the courtyard. Some days he would slash at the straw-filled targets with his sword, and other days, when nostalgia overwhelmed him, he would take to them with a training bow and a quiver of arrows. It had been a long time, and his arms often ached, but it was hard to forget the feel of the bow and the pull of the string.

However, _this _particular day was different. It began just like another, with the Warden, Dane, and Loghain entering the Grey Griffon under the pretense of friendship. Though there was bitterness between them, neither was willing to leave the other to the mercy of foreigners. Though stubborn in their sense of being _wronged, _she by his brutish behavior, and he by her traitorous Orlesian-loving ways, they were still Commander and Second. A squabble, even one as intimate as this, should not interfere with their duties. Under casual touches and frost-laced smiles, they ate breakfast in their corner of the tavern. With their backs to the door, they huddled close in familiarity, too proud to mingle. When the Warden was finished, she left Loghain to see if she had been summoned.

Yet, there was no messenger outside waiting for the Warden. She returned to the tavern with a grim face, sitting once at Loghain's side. Loghain noticed with some disdain that she looked almost _sorry _about the lack of invitation.

"Did the Empress get bored of you so quickly?" Loghain traced the rim of his mug with a finger, smirking into the foamy depths. "Pity. Perhaps she has a new toy?"

"Perhaps," the Warden agreed, "but no less quickly than I get bored of you!" She laughed loudly and slapped his shoulder, and to all the world it would have appeared that she had made a hilarious joke at her Second's expense.

But to Loghain, it was a knife directly to his gut. He shifted in his chair, smiling mirthlessly. "In a jovial mood today, are we?" He turned to the window, noticing how bright and cheery the morning was.

"What is there not to be joyous about?" The Warden waved her hand about. "Wonderful lodging, beautiful city, great companions. It seems we could make a home here after all."

Dane poked his head over the table, long tongue slipping out to grab the last rasher of bacon on Loghain's plate. It slipped easily from the plate into his mouth, and Dane dropped his head back to the floor.

The Warden watched Dane with an amused smile, and pillowed her chin in her hands. "What do you plan to do today?"

Loghain shrugged, the broad expanse of his armor rustling at the movement. "I was going to train. It is a beautiful day outside; I would hate to waste it indoors."

"Hmm." The Warden considered that activity. Since arriving in Orlais all those months ago, she had not once picked up her sword and shield. She had not felt the need to. Despite the barbs and dark glances her fellow Grey Wardens sent her way, she knew none of them would dare to openly move against her. And unlike Loghain and those of his generations, she did not fear the handsome, smiling Chevaliers who rode like the Maker up and down the streets. They would not _dare _to touch a hair on her head, lest they risk the misfortune of the Empress. She felt surprisingly safe in Val Royeaux, safer than she had even in Denerim. "I might do the same, actually. I would hate for my sword arm to fall off unexpectedly."

Loghain reached out a hand for his bacon rasher, but found it missing. "Damnable dog."

Dane whined below the table.

"Yes, I meant it," he groused in response, dropping his hand to his knee to pat the dog on the head. "Bloody thief, you are." He shook his head, giving the Warden a forbidding stare. "Excuse me if I don't leap to be your sparring partner."

"Did somebody say something about a SPARRING PARTNER?" The booming voice, coupled with the sound of massive fists crashing against ale-worn wood sent both the Warden and Loghain jumping from their seats. The Warden had hooked a chair around her leg, ready to swing it in front of her as a shield. Dane stood hunched in front of Loghain, his head down and his teeth bared.

"Hah! The Fereldans are spooked! Haaaaaa!" Flavius's laughter roared through the tavern, drowning out all the other voices of the Grey Wardens eating their breakfasts. Truly, this man knew how to suck all the air from a room, and fill the space with his almost inhuman presence.

Alaric had a hand over his chest, mirroring the expressions of shock that the Wardens wore. He sat next to the excited Flavius. "You spooked me too, and I can _see _you!"

Serge sat completely indifferent to the spectacle. He was toying with a twisting ring of silver and rubies that he wore on his thumb. "Flavius is the creature that goes bump in the night, yes?" he said in rather bored tones. "What a luxury to have nightmares about the dark, and the big, blond men that go bump in it."

"I don't want to go bumping in no dark with you, Serge," Flavius clapped a hand on the blood-mage's shoulder, sending Serge sprawling over the front of the table. He laughed at the slender mage's misfortune. "Grow a spine, mageling!"

"Serge is going to _hurt _you," Alaric whispered, putting his hands over his mouth. He could see the look that Serge was giving Flavius from the corner of his eye.

"Nah, he won't!" Strong fingers plucked Serge from the table and straightened him back in his seat. "Serge knows it's in good fun. So!" The Tevinter barbarian turned his attention back to the Fereldan Grey Wardens, "Which of you two wants to be my sparring buddy?"

Loghain and the Warden shot each other uncertain looks.

Flavius pointed at Loghain, his smile white and wide in his sun-beaten face. "Mac Tir, you up for a round or two, or did the Commander tire you out? Haven't see any bruises in a while!"

The Warden's eyebrows shot high into her hairline, her eye widening at Flavius's remark. Loghain merely coughed and stared at the floor.

"Bruises, you say?" the Warden asked, "You mean," she put her hands to her throat, "here?"

Flavius nodded, grin lascivious on his broad, handsome features. "Seems you have a good grip."

Wheels turned in the Warden's mind. "Oh," her voice dropped low, taking on that tone she reserved for rapists, bandits, and Loghain when she was truly angry with him, "I have an excellent grip. Shall I show you, Flavius? I will be your sparring partner."

The Tevinter man hollered his joy. "I won't be as easy to subdue as Mac Tir there." He slapped a meaty hand across his barely concealed chest. "And don't think I'll be easy on you just because you've got one eye and nothing between your legs."

The Warden replied with a sinister quirk to her lips, "I look forward to the challenge. Come, do I flatten you now, or later?"

Flavius contemplated the breakfast that had just been brought to him a few moments before he'd overhead the two Wardens speaking of training. "After breakfast. Go get yourself ready, woman. I'll be out when I'm done."

"Oh," the Warden's laugh was sultry, and she sketched him a fine bow, "my lord's wish is my command."

Loghain pitied the barbarian. The man had no _idea _what was coming to him. If the big, blond giant was as stupid in a fight as he was in person, then he had no chance against the quick sting and quicker mind of his commander. Loghain could already see this man's style: a two handed weapon, probably a maul, which he swung in reckless abandon. He would fell friend and foe alike with his sweeping strikes, caring for nothing except the bloodlust and the thrill of the fight. Yes, Flavius had absolutely _no _hope of winning, especially now that the Warden had turned her sights on utterly breaking him. That voice meant she had things in store for Flavius. Terrible, horrible things.

He looked forward to it.

Loghain followed the Warden out of the Grey Griffon to a chorus of cheers and well wishes for her sparring match. She accepted the chanting with her easy smile and gracious laughter, murmuring her thanks as she left.

"Do I go and get my sword," she asked him, "or do they provide us with practice swords?"

"They have wooden shields and swords in the crates around the training ground," Loghain explained, leading the Warden to one such crate that held a few wooden short swords and daggers. "I'm not sure where the shields are though," he admitted.

"We will just have to search through all the boxes then. You start here," the Warden pointed to the next two crates that rested beside the one they had just rifled through. "I'll go to the crates opposite us and look." And with an almost flirtatious swish of her hips, she moved across the training ground to the set of crates she had in mind.

The Warden heaved a disappointed sigh at the first crate she encountered, finding it filled with large wooden hammers and more short swords. The second crate proved successful, and she plucked out the three long swords that were tucked within its depths. Each sword she tested for weight and balance. More importantly, she made sure she felt comfortable swinging each one of them. While none of the swords fit correctly in her hand, each had a surprisingly delicate form. They sliced easily through the air, and did not bend or drag against the force she exerted on their blades. She opted for the sword made of the darkest wood, since of all three swords, it was the most comfortable to wield.

As she replaced the other two swords back in the crate, she heard Loghain's solemn footsteps behind her. Turning, she accepted the shield he had found.

"I couldn't find a blade, but I see you already have that covered," he eyed the sword in her hand, "but I did find a shield that is roughly the same shape and size as your crest."

The Warden slung the shield on her armor. Wood was so much lighter than metal! "It will have to do."

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "If you want me to fetch your shield for you, you've only to ask. Just don't cry your eyes out to me when you find Flavius has made irreparable dents in it."

She turned a disbelieving grey eye on him. "You needn't worry," the Warden returned in a saccharine voice, "crying to you is not something I will do."

Loghain's jaw clenched. He murmured out a, "Maker damn it," before turning away from her. "I'll go tell Flavius you await his leisure." He stalked back towards the Grey Griffon, braids tousled in the sudden gust of wind.

Dane, who had waited by the Warden's side all this time, banged his head against her knee. Little tail wriggling, he gave a small grunt as he let a tongue lick the laces of a boot. _Wuff. _

"Aggghhh," the Warden shook her boot away from his mouth, "Dane. Must you truly choose this time to give me kisses?"

Dane barked.

"Go over there and scent that command post," the Warden gestured with the top of her sword to the grey, stone building that absorbed the majority of the central courtyard of the district. "Make sure they know who it belongs to!"

Dane barked again and cocked his head to one side, as if to say he had already done such a thing. There were no other mabari around that he needed to scent _again, _were there?

"No, you are the only one of your breed here," the Warden assured, "but that doesn't mean you can't give them an extra dose, does it?"

A low growl from Dane meant he was giving the suggestion some consideration. His paws scrabbled at the cobblestones in thought. He gave the Warden his answer by dropping to the ground, rolling his body on the sun-warmed stones. No. He was not going to scent.

"Oh, very well," the Warden idly scratched at her dog's belly with the toe of her boot. "There, you like that, don't you? Yessss," she dug her toe into the little spaces that Dane loved tickled, "you would do _anything _for scritches!"

Dane whined happily, legs flailing as the Warden rubbed his stomach. His eyes were shut in bliss and he grunted little sounds of appreciation.

The Warden and the Mabari passed the brief time before the bout in this manner. The Warden's foot, firmly planted on Dane's stomach, made it appear as though she had slain the great war dog in combat, as she had her shield and sword raised. It was only the sudden twitching of one of Dane's powerful legs that showed the truth of the matter.

From behind the broad set of Flavius's shoulders, Loghain watched the Warden and her dog. He could not help the sudden, protective urge that came over him. He felt the rats in his gut begin to worry away at his insides again at the sight of her standing there in her youthful glory, her smile bright and girlish, strands of her hair whipping in the breeze. The sword and shield in her hands looked like nothing more than toys, and they forced him into that narrow frame of mind that made him see the Warden as nothing more than a child playing at war. It took him several long moments to recollect his senses and to understand that war was very much this woman's life, and if he continued to forget that, he would irrevocably damage their relationship. He had to stop seeing in her what he wanted to see, which was either a woman too innocent and too young for him, or a woman long since passed away and out of his reach.

He had to see her for _her. _ She was not Maric, Rowan, Celia, or Anora, for that matter. She was a creature in her own right, and no matter how many parallels he drew to his old friends and lovers, they would not bring her back to him. She was fiercely independent, strong, and brave beyond all measure. She was wise and beautiful. If he had to compare her to something, to give her the poetry she was due, he would _have_ to compare her to Ferelden. Surely, she would forgive an old man his love for his country.

"Come on!" Flavius called, having found the large, two-handed, wooden mallet that he kept for such occasions. "Are you ready to fight me?"

The Warden turned over her shoulder, looking at Flavius via the orb covering eye patch. She made a note of how he looked through the enchanted eye, noticing the contour of his body, how the shapes and shades of grey that made his smoky form twitched and moved as he heaved his weapon over his shoulder. "I am ready," she replied. "Dane, go to Loghain."

Dane obediently stood and sauntered to Loghain, bumping his knee with his in greeting. Loghain stroked two fingers down Dane's head as a means of returning it.

Alaric, Serge, and a host of other Grey Wardens had come with Flavius and Loghain, and they were settling themselves around the perimeter of the training ground. Some sat on the weapon boxes, while others stood and crossed their arms over their chests.

During their initial tour, Serge had explained to them briefly that sparring between Wardens was not uncommon, and that there were certain rules that had been created to protect both combatants. All weapons were to be made of wood that was smooth in edge and texture. There were to be no direct blows to the eyes, or to the groin area, and no match could be initiated without the express permission of one of the Senior Wardens, and the match could not begin until a healer was present. It was how everyone could be kept in a safe, fighting condition.

No preparation was required. There were no target dummies to pull away or any targets to remove. The training ground was an empty rectangle of dusty cobblestones that was suddenly filled by Flavius's huge presence. Flavius, with his broad shoulders near to bursting out of the ripped shirt he wore, tossed his mallet from hand to hand as he approached her. He gave her a wicked smile.

In the sunlight and without any thing to compare him to except herself, the Warden became certain that this man _was_ _bigger _than Sten. The size of a bicep alone was bigger than her head, and for every one step that this giant took, she needed at least three to catch up. He was an opposing but handsome figure in the sunlight. His thick, blonde braids were glowing brilliantly in the sun, as were his eyes. They really were, she mused, quite a striking shade of blue. If the Warden did not know the man's personality and temperament, she might have thought him quite _regal. _

The Warden settled her shield firmly on her arm and adjusted her grip on the sword pommel. She had some idea of what to expect. Sten had exercised an unearthly amount of control and willpower. Every sweep of his sword had an intent. He did not swing mindlessly. If there was no reason to swing, Sten would not. She did not expect Flavius to do the same. Flavius would swing, and swing, and swing again, until he hit something or tired, whichever of the two came first. He was not the cerebral fighter that Sten was and she could use that against him.

Serge waved a slender hand in the air. "You two may begin when ready."

Flavius waggled bushy eyebrows at the Warden before swinging the wooden mallet over his head and charging the distance between them. The mallet swung down and around, missing the Warden by several feet. She had dashed to the left, boots scraping along the dusty stones and kicking up a cloud of dust in her passing. She stepped towards him, her sword leading. She swerved behind Flavius as he regrouped, attempting to flank and kidney gouge him.

Quick on his feet for such a large man, Flavius spun on his toes, bringing the handle of the mallet against the Warden's blade to halt the progression of her stroke. He flashed her another wicked grin, teeth winking at her in the sunlight.

The Warden pulled her blade back, settling herself once more into a defensive stance. She would continue to allow him to take the offense, to goad him into striking her, and when he was recovering from the exertion and momentum of the blow, she would make her move. It was an obvious but practical strategy, and one that had never failed to fell big men such as him before.

Flavius came at her again as before, lifting the mallet high and arcing it downward to strike. The Warden stepped back, feeling the air part before her face as the mallet head passed before her. She placed her foot on the mallet head, dropping her weight on it as her sword swung up to meet Flavius's shoulder.

"No!" the Tevinter man roared, dropping the mallet from his hands as he saw the incoming drive of her sword point. He swept a huge arm out and caught the Warden in her ribs. The Warden's eye went wide in surprise as her shield arm crumpled against her body and Flavius sent her soaring half-way across the courtyard with the force of the blow. He watched her fall bodily to the ground, skidding several feet with the momentum of the impact.

Winded, and stunned, the Warden struggled to orient herself. Her sword arm was scraped quite badly, having born the majority of her body's skidding against the stone. She could feel blood seeping through her shirt. Her leather breeches were scuffed, but her legs were uninjured. Her face was also fine, having tucked it into her shoulder to protect it. She did not have time to linger on the ground listening to the shouts and cheers of her fellow Wardens. Already she could hear Flavius's heavy footsteps rushing towards her. She rolled over her sword arm, dropped her palms to the stone, and gave a great push against the ground with her powerful legs.

The sound of wood splintering against stone followed after her.

She sprinted to the other end of the training ground, giving herself enough distance to collect herself. The Warden sucked in huge gulps of air, feeling as though her head had just broken above the water. She had not expected Flavius to just _drop _his weapon, for it was almost too simple a move. She had expected him to pull and tug away at the weapon beneath her foot. It had been a small miscalculation, but it had nearly ended the match, and she did not intend to leave it without being the victor.

She narrowed her grey eye, letting her long lashes filter out the sun. Let him come. She had a surprise for him, one to repay him for his underhanded manhandling.

Predictably, Flavius charged. Mallet above his head, splinters lethal if they connected with the Warden's corseted and leather clad body, his massive legs made short work of the distance. The mallet came down, but the Warden did not move. Her knees slightly bent, she lifted her shield. Flavius's blow sent her buckling to the ground, but the tight control she had over her muscles meant that she dropped only to a knee. The shield creaked and groaned above her head, and she had lifted her sword arm to help ease the impact of the blow on her straining shield arm.

The Warden waited one agonizing heartbeat, waiting for the tension to ease out of Flavius's muscles, before she reacted. She took a deep breath, before exploding into action. She sprang upward, powerful muscles uncoiling in an exquisite release of energy. Flavius was forced to relinquish one hand's grip on the mallet, and he was sent staggering backwards with the sudden imbalance it caused. The Warden thrust her sword arm up, sending the point of her wooden sword into the hollow of Flavius's neck.

"You lose," she said, tongue coming up to lick at a bead of sweat that had trailed its way down her lips.

Flavius only laughed. The rich, baritone sound vibrated down the wood of the sword and into the Warden's arm. "Not half bad for a one-eyed woman! You're all right, Fereldan!" He clapped the Warden on her injured arm. "You're all right!"

Cold slivers of pain slipped down the Warden's spine. "Err, thank you."

The Warden lowered her sword arm and turned to move away, when Flavius suddenly gripped it, tugging her back.

"Hey," he whispered hoarsely, a strange sound for such a large man. It sounded like the rasp of a cat's tongue, and felt like it too. "You ever fought a mage?"

The Warden eyed the meaty hand on her arm, and then turned her gaze to Flavius's face. It was alight with ill-concealed mirth, features stretched into this mischievous, child like grin. She had no idea what to expect of this man. "Yes, Flavius," replied the Warden warily, "I have. Why?"

"You ever fought a blood mage?" he asked in eager, hush tones, sending a curious glance towards Alaric and Serge who were looking at their interaction with some concern.

"Yes." A chill went down her spine at the suggestion. She _had _fought blood mages before. She had fought _many _of them: ancient Tevinter mage and apostate alike.

"You want to fight Serge with me?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't."

Flavius's brow pulled together in a frown. "You a coward?"

"Yes." She nodded. "I am."

"What are you two whispering about?" called Serge, "I like not the look on Flavius's ugly face."

"He asked me if I wanted to help him fight you," replied the Warden honestly, thinking it better to be honest with Serge for both her safety and for Loghain's.

"Black breath, girl, you gave it away!" cursed Flavius. "Where's the sport in that?"

Serge laughed and placed a long finger to his lips. He smiled at the two warriors. "You are right, Flavius. There _is _no sport in fighting me. Shall I show you, so that we can put it to rest and you can _stop asking me_?" He spoke as if this request was a daily occurrence, and it probably was.

"No!" the Warden held out her sword hand, forefinger raised in protest. "Such a thing is not necessary."

Loghain bit his tongue as he watched the scene, remembering a time when the Warden had thrown him before the stampeding beast that was the Empress of Orlais. He would let her find her own way out of this. He ran a hand over Dane's head, soothing the war dog whose hackles had risen at the tone in his mistress's voice. "Easy, Dane," he said gently, running fingers behind the dog's ears.

"Haha! Yes, come on, Serge!" Flavius swung his mallet menacingly in the direction of his superior. "Get some dirt under those womanly nails of yours!"

"I do not like the way you are raising your weapons at me." Serge stretched out a hand, "I would like it very much if you dropped them."

Flavius's hands opened, and the mallet went crashing to the ground. He stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed, waiting for Serge's next command.

The Warden felt the compulsion to do the same with her own sword and shield, felt her fingers twitch at the suggestion of Serge's magic in her blood. It was not the same as it had been in the Tevinter prison. Those blood mages had been ancient, evil beings that understood the full extent of their powers. They were from the stock that had been forced out of the Golden City by the Maker. All blood mages since that time paledin comparison to the power and might of what were the original magisters.

Still, Serge was no novice at his craft. Her blood still sung for him, and he pulled her strings artfully. Out went her arm, the shield sliding to the ground. To the ground went her sword, fingers loosened from the pommel one by one.

"Now, what say you to a dance?" Serge tilted his hand ever so slightly, and like puppets on a string, both Flavius and the Warden responded by stretching to their full heights, arms pressed tightly to their sides. "What say you, Wardens?"

The Grey Wardens raised their voices in agreements. "Yes! Yes!"

Another tilt of his hand, and Flavius sketched a deep bow, the dip of his head so low that his long hair brushed the cobblestones. The Warden followed likewise, exposing the back of her white neck as she dropped into a curtsey.

"Now," Serge swished his head back and forth in time to an invisible beat of music, "begin!"

Flavius and the Warden, both wearing expressions of wide-eyed joy, launched into the dance that Serge guided them through. Everyone was almost positive that Flavius had never danced a gavotte in his lifetime, but it was clear that Serge had. Flavius's large feet made tiny, controlled movements, as he stepped and hopped to the imaginary tune that Serge had in mind. The Warden mirrored his movements standing opposite him, her smile white, radiant, and utterly false. Serge had her turn her head this way and that, and stretch her arms in wide, sinuous gestures that displayed the fine cut of her jaw, neck, and shoulders. When it pleased Serge, he had the large man spin lightly on the balls of his feet.

It elicited roars of laughter from the onlookers. The Grey Wardens clapped and hooted, watching the troublesome, Tevinter barbarian and the cold, Fereldan Warden Commander hop and dance around one another. Loghain watched the dancing pair with a stoic expression. It did not bring him joy to see the Warden being controlled as such, but he hoped she was feeling the same level of discomfort he had when Celene had made him a Chevalier. Some humbling would do her some good.

At his legs, Dane whined and protested.

"She's all right," Loghain said softly, "She will be fine."

Serge had them continue to dance for several more minutes, the steps becoming more and more elaborate as time passed. Flavius and the Warden were now leaping into the air like deer in the spring, their arms spread wide, and their toes pointed forward as they did so. They leapt, and spun, and danced, their bright smiles never leaving their handsome faces.

Alaric had been watching the spectacle with a less than positive outlook. He put a hand on Serge's shoulder. "You don't think this is a bit excessive?"

"Eh," Serge shrugged, contemplating the thought. "I think it was necessary, but I _am _boring of it. As amusing as it is to see Flavius jump higher than Marcus through the First's hoops, there is only so much of the buffoonery I can stomach. Alas, I am a bad blood mage, wouldn't you say?" He retracted his hand, and his influence.

Flavius, in the midst of one of his tiny steps, lost his balance and toppled over as he gained control of his body. The Warden, leg stretched forward, darted away from the mass of barbarian that was falling towards her. She pulled herself out of the way as he hit the ground. Her first instinct was to grab the nearby sword and shield, and she almost had the former in her hand by the time her memory caught up with her movements.

"Get up," she said icily to Flavius, offering him a hand that he promptly declined. She picked up her sword and shield, bundling them in her arms so she could return them to where she'd found them. She sent a frosty gaze to Serge, who merely shrugged at her in response.

"What happened to me?" Flavius scrubbed at his face blearily, still seated on the cobblestones.

"The Warden beat you in your duel," Serge explained with a sly smile, "knocked you so hard on the head she addled your senses, it seems."

"Wow, really?" Thick fingers prodded at a temple. "Maker, she got me good."

The Warden ignored them both, dropping both sword and shield into a wicker basket that Alaric had fetched for such a purpose.

The young mage eyed the splintering shield, "that will need to be repaired. Or burnt." He gave her a sheepish smile. "Here, let me fix your arm for you."

The Warden had nearly forgotten about the long scrape on her arm. She held out her for Alaric, watching the mage place his hands over the bloodstain just below her elbow. A tingling stretched along her forearm, her skin drinking the magic greedily.

"There," he nodded in satisfaction, "all better."

The Warden merely shrugged, feeling a hopeless, leaden weight settle in her stomach. She had always respected the power of mages, and it continually amazed her the things they were capable of. Yet, the templars were right to fear them. Even the weakest mage had an untapped amount of power, more than any other of the Maker's children. She had been on the receiving end of that power too many times for her liking. Mages had burnt her skin, frozen her legs, sent electricity coursing through her, and healed the most grievous of wounds on her body. Magic could harm and heal her, could shed or save her blood…or control it, if the mage so desired.

Realizing that her shoulders had begun to droop, the Warden straightened quickly. There was an audience around her. There was no time to ruminate. She gave an imperial shake of her head in Serge's direction, lifting her chin high as she regarded him. She fixed the blood mage with her most confident of smiles. "That was uncalled for, Serge!"

Serge raised a black eyebrow, prompting her to continue.

"A gavotte? _ Really?_" She gave a theatrical sigh. "Truly, I expected more. Next time," she tossed a hand up in the air, striking a classic pose of her dance in question, "a volta!" She tossed her head back and _laughed. _

Grey Warden laughter echoed around the courtyard. "Yes, yes!" a few of them cheered, "next time a volta! Have Flavius trot around like a horse!"

Flavius growled at his onlookers, struggling to get to his feet. "I'll make you trot like horses, you cowardly bastards…"

The Senior Warden merely lowered his eyelids, and inclined his head.

"Don't tempt him." Alaric chuckled nervously, sliding his eyes between the implacable countenance of the Warden and Serge's droll expression. "He'll do it."

"I have no doubt," the Warden touched Alaric's arm as she passed him, "that he would." She gave him a parting smile as she moved in the direction of her lodgings.

"Actually, Aurora, before you go," it was Serge, and he had fallen into step beside her, "I was wondering if you might do me a small favor."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, not really feeling in the mood to do Serge any favors. "That would depend on the favor."

"You are going to the palace today, yes?"

She shook her head. "No, I was not summoned."

"Oh, no?" Serge frowned. "Strange. The Empress has not failed to miss your company in the few months you have been here. But," he waved his hand about, "that is neither here nor there. I need you to go to the palace anyway."

"Why?"

"Because Vidar was summoned there several nights ago, and has not yet returned."

It was the Warden's turn to frown. "And why would that be strange? The Empress is very fond of the Grey Wardens."

"It is a complicated issue," he shrugged, "and not one that I have all the details to. Still, it would make Alaric feel better to know that Vidar is well. While Vidar is prone to leaving late at night, he always comes back early in the morning. You might say that this circumstance is…a strange deviation from his previous behavior. He never disappears for long."

"Very well," the Warden agreed, "I'll go to the palace and see if I can't find him."

"Most excellent." Serge touched her wrist gently with his fingers, "and no hard feelings, I hope? You are always safe in my control."

"No," the Warden let her mouth slipped into a friendly smile, hoping Serge didn't notice the way her hands shook, "no hard feelings."

Serge left her then, and so the Warden returned to her rooms to freshen up, finding relief in the way the cold water in her basin chilled her heated skin. Remnants of Serge's influence still lingered in her blood, and it felt as though she was carrying around tiny pieces of the man inside her. It unnerved her. Vigorously she scrubbed at her skin, attempting to rid herself of his tiny icicles, and only stopped when it was red and tingling. She dressed again, exchanging her bloodstained shirt for a cleaner one. She fixed her windswept and blade mussed hair, and then made her way to the palace.

Serge had asked her to find Vidar, and while she was not eager to encounter the man, she was interested in seeing Celene again. The Empress was a funny, charming, engaging woman who provided the Warden with the most scintillating conversation she had ever had. Around her, the Warden felt empowered, because the Empress understood her. They shared this kinship, at least, the Warden wanted to believe that it was so. She found the friend she had always wanted in this enigmatic, ruthless, green-eyed woman.

It worried her that Celene hadn't summoned her, and while the Warden did not think she had fallen out of the Empress's favor, she was concerned that the Empress was spending so much time around Marcus. Marcus had the air of a possessive and jealous lover. The way he tolerated her affections, only to watch her heels and hands with menacing intent as she moved, reminded her of an abused dog. The dog both loved and hated the master, for the master was the source of both constant pain and affection. Like the dog, Marcus could snap at any moment. He could tear out Celene's throat before she could even summon guards to aid her. Not that this was what the Warden thought had happened...

Yet, as she neared the palace and wound her way through the gardens, a strange sense of foreboding came over her. Something was not _right, _and she had the sneaking suspicion that she would soon find out the cause of her dread, for rarely could the Warden sense without discovering.

Celene must have told the guards that she was to walk free and without interruption, for no one hassled her or stopped her as she entered the servant's entrance. No one questioned her presence within the palace, not even as she pushed through the servants busy doing their duties. By the emptiness of the courtyard, it was obvious that Celene was not holding court that day, and so it was likely that the Swan of Orlais was holed up in one of her beautifully decorated rooms. The Warden guessed she would be in her study, cuddling on the furniture amidst a blanket of books, so she made her way there. Nevarran poetry was the Empress's favorite, so perhaps that was what she was reading. Maybe she was even making Marcus read aloud to her.

It was very easy to envision Marcus sprawled out on the floor at the Empress's feet, reciting pieces of the _Wheat Harvest _to her, his deep voice intoning:

"_A thousand sons carry golden wheat_

_On their broad backs_

_And bring the harvest home_

_Where all may share in bounty."_

And she even placed her ear to the door to listen for the beautiful rhythm of his voice. Yet, her eavesdropping and subsequent knocks on the carved door were fruitless. The small raps of her hand on the wood sounded dull and hollow in the corridor, which was as lifeless as the rest of the palace. Clearly, the Empress was not within her library, nor was she in her sitting room of pink lace and silk. She was not in her tennis court, nor was she in her chess hall. She was not in her writing room and she was not in her sewing room. Her card pavilion was empty, and her little theater lay bare. All those rooms that the Empress had shown her and entertained her in were devoid of the light of the Empress's wit and the sparkling sound of her laughter.

The only rooms that the Warden didn't check, and would not check, were those rooms found within the Empress's private chambers. She had not been invited into those rooms, and so did not feel it was her place to intrude.

"What are you doing here?"

The Warden turned quickly, shutting the door to one of the Empress's parlors as she did so. She felt some measure of relief at seeing the dark haired, bright-eyed Marcus, even if he did seem displeased to see her. His face was especially worn today. "I was looking for you, actually."

"Looking for me?" He raised a dark eyebrow. "And what do you need to see me for? I have not yet decided your story, and so we have little else to speak of."

"No, you misunderstand me," the Warden quickly raised a hand to stop him from potentially elaborating on how much he was still suspicious of, "I came looking for you to ask you if you had seen Vidar."

Marcus's eyes narrowed. "And why would you care about where Vidar is?"

"Personally, I do not," the Warden lowered her hand, "but Serge does."

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux pursed his lips and stretched out a bitter hand towards her. "Come. I'll show you where Vidar is."

With the reluctance of one who does not wish to stick their hand in a flame, the Warden placed her hand in Marcus's. His fingers gripped hers tightly, bordering on painfully, around hers. With careful, measured steps, he led her through the grand double doors of the Empress's private apartments, to that place the Warden dared not enter. The first chamber he led her into was a sitting room, of sorts, decorated in blue and white lace trim. There were bookshelves, plenty of chairs, plush rugs, as well as a half-poured decanter of wine sitting atop a table. Two crystal goblets sat beside it, tiny red droplets clinging to their lips.

The second room he had her enter was a dark green, and it was hot and stuffy, with thick curtains obscuring the sunlight from outside. What light filtered into the gloom was murky and thin. A long table and a set of matching chairs occupied the bulk of the room, while the walls were covered with macabre portraits of previous Orlesian monarchs. By the dust on the table, it was clear that this room was not used much.

Marcus shut the door softly behind them, and then put a finger to his lips. The Warden's heart skipped a beat at the gesture, for often such mannerisms used in such places meant nothing but ill. But she did not have long to dwell on Marcus's intentions, for he was carefully nudging away the edge of a portrait with his forearm. He revealed to her a peephole.

"Where does that see into?" whispered the Warden, eyes wide and wondering at the spying tool.

Marcus, who had his eye to the hole and a grimace on his handsome face replied softly, "to her bed chamber." No sooner had the words left his mouth that he let out a quiet hiss, and the hand resting against the wall curled into a fist. "Damn him. _Damn _him." He launched into a string of Orlesian curses, of which the Warden could only identify the words 'king,' 'wife,' and 'strangled at birth.'

The Warden put a gentle hand on Marcus's shoulder, circling towards the door. She noticed his eyes were shut tightly. "Marcus?" she said quietly. "What is it?"

Marcus pulled himself from the keyhole. His forearm still in place to stop the portrait from sliding back into position, he gently tugged the Warden before him, laying her good eye against the peephole with his free hand. He pressed his forehead into the crook of her neck and settled his hips behind hers.

The Warden now trapped between Marcus and the wall, and with no other place to look but through the peephole, did as she was bid. She slipped through the dark hole, allowed the intrigue on the other side to pull her into the bedchamber of the Empress…

Celene's bedchamber was white and frilly, with furniture cut from ivory wood and linens that were washed daily in the holiest waters of the Maker. Mirrors of all sizes and shapes lined the room, but it was clear to all those who entered that the bed was the focal point, for it was massive. Raised high off the ground, it was evident that the bed of the Empress was not merely some straw padded rush mattress. The fullness of the pillows hinted at goose down, or knowing Celene, swan down. The blankets and sheets were piled high in a mass of rich, luxurious silks.

Celene sat on the edge of the bed, a beautiful robe of the palest, softest, pinkest (and shortest!) silk gathered around her shoulders. Her golden hair hung unbidden in sleek, silky waves down her back, their curves mirroring the shape of the long, slender leg that pointed tiny white toes at Vidar.

"Come, _mon loup,_" she crooned in deep, sultry tones. She stretched forth a hand, letting the sleeve fall away to reveal the delicate structure of her wrist. "Let me see you howl."

Vidar, who stood in a state of mixed undress, his light tunic and leather jerkin strewn messily over the floor, merely looked at the Empress from beneath golden eyelashes. His hands were resting over the buckle of his trousers, fingers scratching along the brass surface. It was as if he was debating vesting himself of the constricting garments, for it was plainly obvious to see the swell in his trousers.

The Empress let her robe slip down her shoulders, revealing the fullness of her bosom to both the warm air of her chamber and the roving eyes of Vidar. "They say," she said softly, "that the founders of the Tevinter Imperium suckled from the teats of she-wolves, hoping to gain mastery over nature."

"You are not a wolf," Vidar said in a low voice, hands gone from his belt to now rest on the lean cut of his hips, "and I am not a mage."

"No?" Celene draped a hand over the generous swell of a breast, letting her slender fingers linger near a rosy nipple, "Are you so sure?" She lowered long, black eyelashes against her porcelain skin. There was no paint today, no garish red on her cheeks and lips, or heavy black to line her eyes. She came to Vidar as the Maker had made her: perfect.

It took Vidar no time at all to cross the distance between them, coming to stand before her at the foot of the bed. He placed large, bow-callused hands on either side of her jaw, and brought his lips to hers in a searing kiss. There was no pretense of softness in the way his lips met hers, or the way in which his fingers tangled themselves in her hair. His kiss demanded that she yield to him, his fingers curling tightly into the golden expanse of hair as his tongue invaded her mouth.

The Empress broke the kiss, leaving Vidar panting against her mouth, his teeth bared, and his grip strong. She turned her face away from him, exposing the long expanse of her throat. "_Mon loup, _you have my permission to bite."

Vidar did as was bid, his teeth scraping along her gentle flesh as he pulled and sucked at her neck. Red welts appeared along the Empress's neck, welts that would need to be hidden by layers upon layers of paint and powder, but such concerns were for another time and place. The Empress tangled her fingers into Vidar's dark hair, twirling her fingers in the brown strands as Vidar's mouth worked ever lower. He suckled on a breast, using his hand to knead one nipple into attention while his mouth worked on the other. The Empress let out small, strangled moans above his head, her eyes fluttering shut at the attention.

But Vidar was not content to stop. His hands undid the knot of the sash that held the robe shut below Celene's waist. He pushed it away from her skin and then pushed against her stomach, forcing her to lie back against her silken bedspread. One knee planted on the end of the bed, Vidar hauled himself up upon it. Grabbing one of Celene's shapely thighs, he hauled her body towards him. He gripped tight enough to bruise, but his fingers did not linger long enough there for him to care, for he was busy burying them _elsewhere. _ Settled now on his side, using one of Celene's legs as a pillow, he set himself upon her like a child with a sweet.

Celene arched her back in surprise at the intrusion, and then again, when she felt the stubble of Vidar's chin and then the rush of his tongue against her core. "Oh! Oh! Oh, yes!"

On her side of the wall, the Warden let out a gasp of her own. Vidar's face was buried in Celene's depth, and she could see the menacing glint of his eyes staring up at the Empress as she writhed on the bed before him like some great gold and white serpent. She shut her eye tight against the image, but she could still hear Celene's loud and lusty moaning pulsing through the wall at her.

She (and she supposed it was because physical love was still so _new _to her) had not known such a thing was even possible… Alistair and Riordan had never… and Loghain had _taken _her, but had not done _this. _ How could a fiend like Vidar make a woman's eyes roll back into her head in pleasure, and a good man like Loghain make her eyes roll back into her head in pain? This made Vidar seem almost considerate to the Empress's needs!

She opened her eye again, allowing herself to be absorbed once more by the deeds in the other room…

Celene was whispering and panting out a string of Orlesian words. "I'm drowning, oh, deeper I sink…" and then suddenly was balling her beautiful hands into her silk sheets and howling out a chorus of, "_Mon loup! Mon loup!" _

Vidar wiped his nose and mouth with his hand, sitting up so that he could survey the rapturous and panting form of the Empress of Orlais. With her full breasts heaving and her skin studded in droplets of sweat, she looked more like some expensive courtesan than the formidable, indomitable diamond of the Orlesian Empire.

The Empress gave Vidar a lazy, insolent smirk and then arched her back seductively. "Out of your pants, _mon loup_, I would have you now." Glistening wet and as warm as the waters of the fountain outside, she was certainly ready.

But the Grey Warden's hands stilled on his trousers, fingers again toying with his belt clasp, as if he was unsure.

Celene opened a bright green eye and raised a brow. "Oh, you will play coy? Very well. Here, let me undress you, little pup." She pushed herself into a sitting position, agile fingers plucking away his darker, hair-colored digits. They made short work of the belt, and were quick to divest the lanky Grey Warden of his trousers, sliding them over his lean hips. Celene's eyes wandered down the form of her younger lover, admiring the sinuous way his skin hugged his muscles. He was well formed, with a strong chest and arms from pulling a bow. The dark fur on his chest trailed down his abdomen to form a rich and tangled jungle at his groin.

The Empress placed a cool hand around him, squeezing his length gently. "You are quite ready for me," she said huskily.

Vidar only narrowed his eyes before launching into another searing kiss. He was pushing her into the silks, satins, and furs with his greater weight, coaxing her fire back into life with wild strokes of his tongue. She opened up like a flower before him, lifting her long legs to wrap about him and draw him close.

"Yes, take me, take me," she murmured, eyes closed and head thrown back, "take me before I _die._"

The Grey Warden was only too happy to oblige, sliding himself into the darkest of her depths in a fluid motion. The air left his lungs as he did so, his cry coming out as both gasp and growl. Celene rose up to kiss him again, but Vidar pulled away. He dragged a thigh high under his arm, lifting her for both leverage and distance. He thrust away at her, the wet slap of skin almost as loud as the mewling of the Empress.

Cries of, "yes, yes, _mon loup, _like that, yes!" turned into, "oh, harder, harder," and then stopped coming entirely as the Empress started sighing below her lover, shifting her weight around so that he would reach _that spot… _but Vidar seemed oblivious, driving himself into her at a steady, vigorous pace. His eyes bored down into her face, watching her.

Celene gave a frustrated sigh, struggling away from Vidar's persistent, unchanging pace. "Is there something wrong, Vidar?"

Vidar raised an eyebrow in question.

The Empress pushed him away, sliding herself away from him. "This performance is…lacking."

His other eyebrow rose to meet its twin.

"I enjoy a good thrusting as much as the next, but there is a lack of passion, of excitement, in the rhythm. And," the Empress shuddered, "you stare at me quite frightfully."

"Enraptured by your beauty, Your Majesty," Vidar rumbled. It was hard to tell if he took offense or was amused by the Empress's words.

"You are a young, powerful, _passionate _man," Celene said quietly, and touched her hand to his cheek. "I desire you greatly, as I know," her eyes flicked down to the expanse of skin that rose above the dark curls between his legs, "you desire me. So _take me_, please. Touch me like a lover, _mon loup. _ Take me as you would your pretty, little commander. Take me as you would _her_."

Vidar ran a tongue over his lips, tasting the Empress on them. He raised a hand to the Empress's face, letting it linger along her cheek. She closed her eyes and leant into his touch, and he used her gentle pressure against his hand to her advantage. One strong hand came to her shoulder and forced her down onto her stomach. He kept it there as he shifted behind her, letting his arousal brush against the rounded curves of her rear.

He slid into her with ease, the stretch and pull of his muscles against hers a sensual and primal dance. "If you wanted me to take you like her, perhaps we should go to the stable," he growled, his hips rocking into hers sharply. He heard the Empress gasp against the pillow she had found, her fair cheek resting against it as she raised her rear to him like a cat in heat. "And I can fuck you amongst the horses and the dogs. Would that _please _you?"

"Oh!" Celene rubbed against the pillow, tangling her golden hair as she did so, "Oh, yes, yes!" She whined and purred at his powerful strokes, of the furious tempo in which he took her.

"Take you like a dirty _commoner?"_ Vidar pushed himself into the Empress with a wild abandon, his hands pulling her hips against him as quickly as her muscles would take him. "Take you in the common room, so that even your precious lover can see how cheap and common you _really _are?" He tilted his head back, eyes shut tightly.

"Oh yes, _mon loup! _Yes! Yes!" The Empress rested the bulk of her weight on the forearm that rested below the pillow, slipping her other hand below her sweat-streaked body to rub two fingers furiously against herself. "Dying! Dying!" She buried her face into her pillow, muffling her shrieks of pleasures.

There was no safety behind the peephole, for the Empress's cries of lust had spurred something in Marcus. One of his hands clenched tightly at the Warden's waist, holding her firmly between the wall and his hips. He rubbed himself against her, grinding himself into the Warden's backside. And the Warden, completely engrossed in watching the Empress succumb to Vidar's filthy words and barely contained lust, couldn't bring herself to feel outraged. Even as she felt Marcus's anguished breathing on her neck and the pressure of his teeth on her skin to stifle his cries, she did not care.

The Warden watched Celene arch her back, beautiful faced pulled back into an exquisite smile. Her green eyes fluttered shut and she gave a great exhale, chest heaving as she reached her peak in a sonorous, wordless sigh.

Vidar continued to pump away at her, his shoulders and arms shaking at the strength of the grip he had on the Empress's hips. It appeared that he too was nearing his end, for his eyes were squeezed shut and his face was taught in an expression of elusive pleasure. He leaned forward over the Empress, sliding his hands over her shoulders to tangle in her, pulling her head back as he growled into the column of her throat. "Would you like that, _Aurora? _ Oh, Maker, _Aurora, Aurora!" _

The Warden felt as though a wave had just slammed her head first into the murky stone of a cliff face. With a half-strangled gasp, the Warden pushed away from the wall, sending Marcus tumbling backwards against the dusty, antique table. Her mouth hung open in shock, and she felt the air lodged unmoving in her throat. Not Andraste. _Her. _ 'Pretty commander' meant _her. _ A hand came up to wrap around her neck, and she thumbed away the droplets Marcus had left behind on her. Apparently, she looked how Marcus felt, for he gave her an embarrassed and conciliatory smile that was not at all comforting.

They waited in the stale darkness and the silence for several minutes, trying to gather their wits and their bearings. From the other side of the wall there was the sound of muffled voices and movements, but without the peephole, there was no way to decipher their meanings. Marcus rested lightly on the edge of the table, while the Warden's hands held steadfast to her neck.

"There is Vidar," he said simply. Hopelessly. There was Vidar, resting between the Empress's silky thighs, a place where Marcus might otherwise be.

"The _horror,_" was all the Warden could manage, still too stunned to understand what had just transpired.

"And how do you think _I _feel?" he replied in a sardonic tone, his blues eyes watching her intently. "And no," he continued quickly, watching the Warden's lips part, "I don't want your little platitudes. I need no answer. Silence is best, because we cannot linger here."

The Warden nodded, feeling her senses return to her. She could feel the heat burning in her cheeks, the shame settling in her gut, and the throbbing between her legs. It had been _wrong _to spy on her friend and fellow Warden, and if she had really wanted to, she could have easily broken Marcus's hold on her. Yet, she hadn't. So what sort of creature did that make her? Tiredly, she accepted the offer of Marcus's arm, trusting him to escort her safely and quietly from the room, but he only led her as far as the door.

"I shall," he said, his eyes fixed on the door where the Empress and her lover lay, "stay here. You know the way out, and if you do not, there are windows to help." His voice was strangled, as if he was keeping down a great swell of emotion.

The Warden raised an eyebrow, but she understood that his anger was not directed at her. The Empress's betrayal had hurt him, but the Warden also understood that, even if she had felt inclined to, there was nothing she could to do soothe his pride. He was going to stay behind and face Celene, to hold her accountable for her infidelity. Maker help Vidar, for Marcus's gaze was black and murderous. She nodded, smoothing a hand down her attire before departing.

The cool darkness of the corridor was a welcome relief, and the Warden stepped from shadow to shadow as she departed. With her head ducked and her hands held tightly down her sides, she passed the beautiful sculptures of the Empress that lined the walls, the elaborated carved doors, and the rich tapestries. At several points, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps behind her in the corridor, but each time she turned to look over her shoulder and examine the noise, she found that she was completely alone.

* * *

_This chapter is dedicated to my lovely beta, Lady Winde. Happy birthday, my muse! I'm glad you an awesome birthday, and I hope you liked your present. Now, put all that knowledge you learned at the GDC to work!_

_And wow again! Dearest readers, you have been feedback machines, and I LOVE it! I've been frantically setting aside time all week to piece this chapter together, because I've been so excited! So to those of you who are leaving your thoughts, alerting, and favoriting the story, thank you ever so much!_

_Also, if you haven't seen Lady Winde's representation of the Empress of Orlais, the link to her artwork is in my profile. Celene is simply a sumptuous extravaganza of lace, charm, and beauty. _


	32. Interlude VIII

**Interlude VIII: The Coldest Spring**

_She had fallen ill in winter, and had passed in the spring. Like the pale blanket of snow that slept on the green grass of Gwaren and then yielded and faded to the sun, so too had Celia Mac Tir. _

_Her letters had never mentioned her sickness. Of the chronic chest pain, the stifling cough, and the persistent fever, Celia had been silent. The letters she sent to him in Denerim had always been of the most pleasant, courteous nature. She regaled him of Anora's growing beauty, and her wit as she battled with her tutors daily. She wrote to him of her plans to expand her already considerable garden come the spring, to add blooms of Highever White to her lush patches of Denerim Red. She sent him sketches of the renovations she planned for the great hall and their bedroom. She even filled him in on local gossip, knowing he enjoyed the local flavor of her letters most of all. _

_Her letters were happy. Humorous. No woman could write a better tale than Celia. _

_And no woman could lie better with her words, for Loghain had no inclination of his wife's weakening state until the missive from his seneschal came. The man's thick, bulky handwriting was such a garish contrast to the light, birdlike script Celia had mastered from the Chantry sisters. The message was brief, and Loghain was still having trouble understanding its meaning. _

After waging a war with an illness all winter, the Teyrna passed this morning. She resides now in the Maker's hands. Funeral preparations will begin with your permission. The Lady Anora bids you return.

_Celia was dead. His wife, and the mother of his only child, had died in Gwaren. He was stunned. It had come so soon, and without warning. Why had she not mentioned her illness to him? Why had Anora not written to him?_

_It was true, he reflected, one hand clutching the missive and the other grasping the ledge of the window, that he had been a terrible husband and father. He had been absent for most of their marriage and for Anora's upbringing. His daughter was now walking the fine edge of declaring herself a woman and would soon be eligible for marriage… though it did not appear that Celia would be making her wedding dress as she had often mused to Loghain. _

"_I would very much like," she would say in her soft, throaty voice, "to make Anora's dress with my own hands. I understand that we have the means to buy her dresses of the softest silks and lace, but I would not have her forget the virtues that won her the right to be born free." _

_When she extolled to him her practical, Fereldan wisdom, Loghain was utterly undone. It was what had captured him in the first place, her wisdom. And her looks. He loved her looks as much as he loved her sensibilities, for it was undeniable that with her slender waist, broad hips, and sunny hair that she was a lovely creature. After all, Anora had _not_ been conceived merely out of necessary conjugal duties. He had loved his pretty, young, patriotic wife in his own fashion, stirred more by his passion than any true meeting of hearts. He loved _pieces_ of her, rather than her entire sum. _

_Yet, there were times when he felt a true connection with her, often when they sat side by side in front of the hearth in Gwaren, mugs of warm cider between them during the cold evenings. She would bare her slender feet to the warm fire, poking toes outward to catch the heat of the flames, and relate to him little country anecdotes that would make him smile and chuckle. She would speak in a voice that was low and rolling like the sound of thunder from behind a thick, sturdy roof. It was a voice that made him feel content and safe, made him believe that he could make a life free of worry, and work, and war with her. _

_But it was a voice that also drove him from her side. Every time he felt himself slipping to her charms (and Celia had many charms, practicality and homemaking not being the least of them), he would return to Denerim. It was wrong of him to abandon her, but he had convinced himself he could not __love__ her like he loved Rowan. When he'd married her, he thought he had made peace with himself over that fact, but it had become painfully evident after the birth of Anora that it wasn't the case. He hid himself in Denerim, huddled behind Ferelden's and Maric's skirts. He buried himself in duties to the kingdom, running the nation while Maric traveled the lands to meet with his people. Where Maric took every opportunity to escape the crushing weight of his responsibilities, Loghain took every opportunity to undertake more of it. _

_Some had gossiped that if Loghain had spent less time in Denerim and more time in Gwaren, Maric might have been forced to stay within the capital and do as his station demanded. It was painfully obvious that the death of Rowan had crippled both men. When Loghain had told Rowan that Maric _needed_ her in order to be king, it had not been in jest or comfort. Rowan's iron back bone and prudence had been the tempering force that Maric needed. Loghain could be no such thing to Maric, for he lacked Rowan's empathy and soothing touch. If Maric needed consolation, Loghain could only listen. He couldn't offer Maric anything more than a clap on the shoulder and a solemn nod of commiseration. He was not very good at being comforting. _

_But neither was Maric. _

Knock.

Knock.

_Maric's voice sounded from the other side of the door. "Loghain? Loghain? Are you in?"_

_Loghain turned his face from the window. The men at arms training in the courtyard below had proved a mindless distraction, but there was no denying his old friend. "Yes, Maric. I'm in," he called. _

_The door to Loghain's study squeaked open, and in walked the Savior himself. Even in his simple red tunic and brown pants, Maric had a noble bearing. Though his shoulders often slouched and his gait was lazy, Maric had an easy going charm and charisma that he wore on his handsome features with ease. He had a boyishly charming appearance, which was hardly tempered by the onset of age. The small lines around his eyes that had been brought on by sleepless nights and grief could be mistaken for laugh lines if one did not know him. _

"_Are you ready to go riding?" Maric asked, idly flipping some blond hair over his shoulder. "You promised me yesterday that you'd let me show you the expansion I had in mind to our farmlands. And what was it you said to me?" Maric pitched his voice low, "'Maric, I'm a farmer. I know my way around farmlands better than you.' It is time to put that statement to the test!"_

"_Heh," Loghain's fist tightened around the letter in his hand, "that's true, for the most part. You would probably only fall off your horse face first into mud, and then we'd have to wait for your royal person to get clean again." _

_Maric smiled. "And that's why I need you to come with me, to stop me from falling into the mud." _

_Loghain shook his head, "I don't think so. You'll have to go on your own." _

"_What?" Maric's smile faltered, cheeks slackening, "Why?"_

"_I need to return to Gwaren," Loghain replied simply, unsure of how to tell Maric that his wife had died. _

_The King's eyebrows rose. "Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do? You rarely return to Gwaren unless there's something amiss."_

"_My," Loghain had some trouble finding the words, "wife. Celia. Is dead." _

_Maric sucked in a deep breath. "Maker, Loghain, I'm so sorry." _

_Loghain could only shrug helplessly. There was really nothing to say. _

_The two men stared at each other in awkward silence. Maric looked as though he'd stepped on something sharp, for his eyes were especially round and his cheeks were drawn. Loghain was stony and impassive. The two of them were the best of friends, but absolutely miserable in giving each other what the other needed. Maric needed reassurance and Loghain needed something to do. But where Loghain would want to act, to begin preparations, Maric would bog him down with words. And where Maric would want to pour out his soul, Loghain would shovel papers in front of him. _

_As was his wont, Maric broke the silence first. He crossed to Loghain, and laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "How did she die?" _

"_She was ill." Loghain offered him the rumpled letter. "She was sick all winter. I had no idea." _

_Maric took the little slip of paper, smoothing it out with long fingers. His eyes scanned the page and when he was done, he flicked them up to Loghain's. "She didn't write to you about it at all?"_

"_No," he shook his head, "not a word. She writes of everything except herself, though that is not out of the ordinary for Celia." _

"_Wrote, Loghain," Maric corrected gently. His hand squeezed Loghain's shoulder again, creasing his green and gold doublet. _

_Loghain's eyes widened at the slip, but he sent a glare to his friend. "I'm returning to Gwaren today," he said stiffly, "I am going to leave within the hour, if I can." _

"_Do you want me to come with you?" _

"_No," Loghain plucked the note from Maric's fingers, "I don't." _

"_Well," Maric looked for a loss of words. "Well, you can't go alone. I'm coming with you."_

"_Don't trouble yourself on my behalf, Maric. You've a kingdom to run. Please don't use my wife's death as -" Loghain stopped himself before he could continue. He did not want to start a fight with Maric, not now. Even as much as he believed that his friend would use his wife's death as an excuse to escape the crown, he was not ready for the confrontation. _

_Maric was a good king. He was a popular king. And when he put his mind to it, he was a very efficient, shrewd ruler. But more often than not, Maric left it to his advisors and to Loghain to see the kingdom administered. To both the nobles and the common people, Maric's growing reluctance to rule was insubstantial. They were happy to have a king, let alone a Fereldan king. They didn't care that he preferred to travel the countryside than mingle with his people than hold court. It was one of Maric's charms. _

"_As what?" Maric raised a golden eyebrow. "Come, Loghain, use your wife's death as what?"_

"_It's nothing," the Teyrn of Gwaren stalked to his desk, absently ruffling through the pieces of parchment to give himself something to do. "Cailan will probably want to know Anora is grieving." _

_Maric came to stand before the desk, resting sword scarred and wind bitten hands on the parchments Loghain was sorting. "I can write my son a letter before we leave. I am sure he would be happy to cut short his hunting trip in Highever to see Anora." _

"_That would probably bring her a small measure of comfort, yes," Loghain found a blank piece of parchment and gave a tug on it, but found that Maric's finger pinned it to the wood of his desk. He gave another tug and raised questioning eyes to Maric's. _

"_Use your wife's death as what?" prompted Maric again with a gaze that had more wisdom than it should. _

_Loghain grit his teeth and gave a sharp tug on the parchment, ripping its corner off. Maric could see through Loghain as easily as if he were a piece of glass. "Don't use Celia's death as an excuse to leave court. You got in from Redcliffe barely two weeks ago."_

_Maric scowled, though it was playful. He did not seem to take offense at Loghain's words. "I couldn't very well not give my brother-in-law congratulations on the birth of his son, could I? You know how hard it's been for Isolde to conceive…" _

"_Yes," he replied, voice laced with venom, "Orlesian fields are as barren as their women."_

"_Loghain," the scowl turned serious and Maric's voice was full of warning, "I won't have you insulting Isolde like that. She's been through a lot." _

"_My apologies," Loghain replied slowly, his voice thin, "I was unaware that friends couldn't speak freely to one another." _

_Maric sighed and shook his head. "Don't direct your anger at her. Direct it at me. I know I'm the one you're angry with."_

"_I'm not angry with you." _

"_You are." Maric's smile was wry. "You're angry with me because you think I've been neglectful of your mistress."_

_Loghain's eyebrows shot up. "My _what_?" _

"_Ferelden, you dolt," Maric gave a roll of his eyes. "You think I've been neglectful of Ferelden. And for all that you spend protecting her goods and borders, she may as well be your mistress, Loghain. Maker knows you'd buy her apartments in Orlais, if you could." _

_At least for Celia's sake, the mistress was a country. _Her_ country. Better it be Ferelden than some _Orlesian_ bard. Or even worse, some _Grey Warden_. "Ferelden is a harsh mistress," Loghain admitted. "And I wouldn't just buy her apartments; I'd buy her the whole damn country of Orlais."_

"_I am sure you would, Loghain, I'm sure you would. Here, I'll write to Cailan," Maric's hands stretched forward to capture the parchment at Loghain's fingers, "and you go get ready. I'm still mostly packed from Redcliffe. You know me," he chuckled, "I hate unpacking." _

"_And I hate packing." Loghain relinquished his hold on the parchment. He watched with disinterest as Maric's quick fingers plucked at his dove-white quill and alabaster inkwell. Maric's tiny scrawl had very little flourish to it. It was barely legible by Chantry standards. _

_Maric glanced up from his letter writing. A lock of hair had fallen over one eye, giving the care-worn king a much younger appearance. "What a pair we are." He returned to writing the letter. _

_Loghain lingered on the other side of the desk, hesitant to leave and begin gathering personal effects for the trip to Gwaren. To pack was to acknowledge that something had happened, that something was wrong. He was not ready to admit that. He didn't want to relinquish his control on the situation. _

"_Loghain," Maric chided quietly, "why are you still here? You should be packing. We'll never be able to leave within the hour if you just stand there." His lips curved upward into a smile. The smile only deepened when Loghain did not respond. The only sound that stood between them was the scratching of Maric's quill against the parchment. "Do you not trust me with your maps and books?" That was about all there was in Loghain's study: maps, books, and paper. _

"_Why do you think she never told me?" Loghain cleared his throat, trying to mask the question he had so plaintively asked of Maric. He couldn't even fathom why he'd asked it at all. It was not as if Maric had better insight into women than he did. He'd blundered through as many relationships as Loghain had, and by all rights had come out the worst for it. Loghain had no bastards and only a few secrets. Maric had bastards and many secrets. _

_Maric's quill halted momentarily as the king considered his friend's question. "It was probably the same reason Rowan never told you either." _

_Rowan's passing had come much like Celia's. She had suffered from a wasting illness that had come upon her with fall's first red leaf. She had left them with the onset of spring, and it had been the warmest spring Loghain could ever remember. All of the Redcliffe lilies had bloomed early that season, according to his wife. All of her letters had marveled at their beauty, and it was with some sour, pathetic sentiment that he had written back that the flowers mourned the departed Rowan Guerrin and bloomed in her name. _

_The irony of this terrible situation was not lost on him. How fitting that he would distance himself from Maric and Rowan, only to have Rowan die in Denerim when he was in Gwaren with Celia. And now when he was trying to distance himself from Celia, she would go ahead and die in Gwaren when he was in Denerim with Rowan's ashes. _

"_She didn't want me to trouble myself?" Loghain shook his head. His face was a mask of disbelief. "I must be some kind of monster if my wife and friends can't even admit to me their physical ailments." _

"_It isn't that," Maric dropped the quill back into the pot, "you are just so busy. And you make it a point to be so. Celia knew that Ferelden is your calling. Rowan did as well. They both knew how much joy it - "_

_Loghain raised a hand quickly. This was not something he wanted to hear. "Do not. I'm sorry I even said anything. I regret asking." _

"_Well, what do you want to hear?" Maric's brow furrowed. _

"_Maric, do not." _

"_Rowan didn't want you to see her so weak."_

"_Maric, stop." _

_Maric shook his head and pressed on. "She didn't want you to watch her waste away."_

"_Maric, _really_," Loghain tried to interrupt, trying to drown out the sound of the king's voice with his own. _

_But Maric was talking over him, trying to make his point heard. "She didn't want you to see her reduced to nothing but ash." _

"Maric_."_

"_Celia probably thought the same thing."_

"_Maric, STOP." _

"_They acted only out of love for you!" _

"_STOP."_

_Both men stood on either side of the desk, faces red, chests puffed, and breaths coming in ragged gasps. Loghain's shoulders were curled forward in a menacing loom, and his teeth were bared in distress at Maric's words. He sucked air through his nose and let it hiss through his teeth. Maric sunk low against the desk, resting his weight on his hands. His neck was stiff and strained from the angle at which he regarded his friend. _

"_What," Maric said slowly, "can I say to make you feel better?"_

"_You can't say anything. Please," Loghain's fists clenched at his sides, "stop trying. I am _fine_. You are making this worse than it has to be."_

"_Worse than it has to be? You're a real piece of work sometimes, Loghain, you know that?" Maric straightened from the desk, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "You don't have to carry the burden by yourself. I can help. It's what friends do." _

"_You," Loghain pointed a finger at him, "have enough on your plate. I can tend to my own affairs, thank you very much." _

"_Can I at least give you a hug?" Maric stretched his arms wide, "It would make _me _feel better."_

"_No," Loghain growled. _

_Maric stalked around the side of the desk. "Are you sure?"_

"_Touch me, Maric, and so help me I'll throw you out that window right there." _

"_You'd like that wouldn't you?" Maric teased, "Then you'd have all my duties and responsibilities to attend to and an excuse not to go to Gwaren. Who would be using whose death as an excuse _then_?"_

_Loghain's eyes narrowed and he took a step back from the advancing Maric. "I don't need to rob Ferelden of its king to do your work." _

"_Oh," Maric was within two steps of Loghain, "you are a bad person. I don't think you were loved enough as a child."_

_Regardless of what Loghain had threatened, he still found his head pillowed on Maric's shoulder and Maric's arm wrapped around his chest. With a weak, half-hearted gesture, he closed his friend's embrace. He felt Maric's hand between his shoulder blades, fingers disturbing the thick, dark hair that spilled down his back. Loghain found no solace in the comforting circle of Maric's arms. He felt cold and awkward in the otherwise radiant presence of the king. Maric's melancholy could last for days, and he could wear it on his sleeve for all the kingdom to see, but he would always shine like the sun. It was too bright, too painful. Loghain gratefully pulled away from Maric, lying through his bitter smile that he felt better. _

"_Not so bad, was it?" asked Maric as Loghain pulled away. _

"_I'll go," Loghain gestured to the door, "pack now." _

_Maric merely nodded, waving him off as he returned to the desk to fetch the missive he'd written for Cailan. _

_Packing was done in silence and severity. Loghain's servants scuttled out of his way as he stormed through his quarters, pulling out clothes and other accoutrements that would last him the journey to Gwaren. "Armor," he grunted at them, tearing open drawers and armoires to get what he needed. He had enough clothes at his estate that he did not need to bring more than just the essentials. He worked efficiently, folding and stuffing items into his saddlebags. When he was ready, the servants helped him into his plate. The heavy, ornate metal of the Orlesian Commander's armor felt good. He felt less naked with it on, less transparent to Maric's keen eye. With his sword and shield in place, he felt almost normal. _

_It struck him, as he made his way to the stables, that he hadn't purchased a gift for Anora. Normally, he would buy Anora and Celia something from the Denerim marketplace before coming home. He always bought seeds and a bolt of silk for his wife, while for his daughter he would purchase some sort of shiny bauble that ways always made of Ferelden gold. Anora had a magpie's penchant for jewelry, one that Loghain hoped Cailan could fill. _

_Maric was waiting for him at the stables, having readied the horses. Loghain's grey palfrey grunted a greeting at him and swished his tail as Loghain strapped his saddlebags into place. _

"_I've got some feed for them," Maric said absently, tightening straps and fastening catches on his saddle, "enough for the journey to Gwaren. Or at least supplement it. And what else," Maric muttered off a list of the things on his horse, including extra pairs of socks. "And our food, I have our food…" _

_Loghain paid it no mind, swinging himself on the horse's back. "If we starve, we starve." _

"_Says you." Maric set a foot in a stirrup and hauled himself onto his own horse. "You're the bad-tempered one." _

"_Do me a favor, Maric?"_

_Maric raised an eyebrow. _

_Loghain turned a baleful eye to the stable doors. "Just be quiet." _

_He had only laughed at that, making a solemn promise that he would try his best. They weren't out of Denerim for more than two hours before Maric was pestering with him questions about the flora and fauna. _

"_Loghain, what is this sort of tree?" _

"_Loghain, what does one plant in earth this color?" _

"_Loghain, what is the meaning of that flower?"_

"_Loghain, how do I find my way out of the woods if I get lost?" _

_Loghain had dutifully answered the questions, save the last. _

"_Well?" Maric bumped his knee against Loghain's, "How do I find my way out of the woods?"_

"_I think you already know the answer to that," the Teyrn of Gwaren said quietly. "You've done it once before." _

"_Oh." It dawned on Maric that the last time he'd been lost in the woods, he'd stumbled into Loghain. "Well, I'll just hope to find someone poaching deer then, since you won't tell me." _

_Loghain replied with a mirthless chuckle that was as joyless as the cloudy skies they passed under. _

_Such weather was a persistent friend on their journey to Gwaren. The threat of rain loomed over them as big, black storm clouds rolled in the distance. They heard the distant sounds of thunder as they traveled, and smelt the rich, earthy scent of the storm in the air, but the Maker favored them. It only poured when they were safely inside Loghain's estate. The door had barely shut behind them before the building shook with a sudden clap of thunder, a crack of lightning, and a barrage of raindrops. _

"_Excellent timing," appraised Maric. _

_Loghain's seneschal greeted them, murmuring an apology that they were not expecting King Maric to return with him. _

"_Oh," Maric waved his hand in dismissal of the man's concern, "I'm just happy with a bed. Any bed. Put me in the stables, if you like."_

_The seneschal blanched at this, as he always did. It was Maric's customary way of greeting him, and he still wasn't used to it. _

"_Where is Anora?" asked Loghain, "Where is my daughter?"_

"_She is in the Chantry, Your Grace," replied the Seneschal, taking his lord's bags into his wiry arms. "She has been there since this morning." _

"_Maric," Loghain inclined his head to his friend, "I need to do this alone." He tugged his spring cloak as far over his pauldrons as he could. _

_Maric nodded. "I will be relaxing in the stable then." _

"_Incorrigible." Loghain shook his head. "Don't let His Majesty give you grief," he ordered his seneschal, who could only give a weak nod of his head. It seemed to Loghain that Celia might not be the only early death in Gwaren, if his faithful servant's demeanor was anything to go by. The seneschal was not a young man, but Loghain distinctly remembered him having a full head of hair and a thick beard the last time he'd laid eyes on him. Now the man had barely a stitch of hair on his head, and only scraggly whiskers to speak of. It did not sit well with him. _

_Under the cover of his cloak's hood, Loghain made his way into the pouring rain. He was grateful for the cobblestones, since it meant he wouldn't have to pick mud out of his sabatons. His estate was on the main thoroughfare that connected the city's center to the King's Road, barely beyond the city's limits. Gwaren was a large city, though not in the cosmopolitan ways that Denerim and Highever were. Loghain's Teyrnship was filled with loggers, farmers, and fishermen. They were simple men who lived simple lives. The city itself was a necessity to generate coin on which they could live, but he knew that many of them preferred their little farms and country cottages to the tradesmith dwellings of Gwaren and the supposed wealth it brought. _

_To make themselves at home, the farmers had brought the country to the city. Gwaren had many gardens. Shops always had flowers in their windows or growing outside along the walls, and it was almost a necessity to have flower boxes or trellises to do business in Gwaren. There was an old proverb amongst the people who lived there: _a man who cannot grow the soil cannot grow as a man._ It was a quick and easy means by which his people could judge outsiders. Those newcomers who could not spend the necessary time and effort to bring a bud to bloom did not have the time or patience to establish long lasting relationships. Such men were not good business partners, nor were they good neighbors. They did not last long in Gwaren. _

_Loghain was forever thankful that his people had accepted him at face value. He was a farmer's son, so his ability to grow was unquestioned. Little did they know that he killed almost every plant he touched. _

_The Chantry sat in the center of the city, surrounded by a low gate of sandy colored stones. As he passed through the perpetually open gate, he could see that the sisters had already been busy tending to their gardens. The sisters, with their sizable chunk of land, were in charge of Gwaren's community garden. The sisters diligently raised small crops and herbs, which they would then provide to needy families in the name of the Maker. These crops were also the source of the delicious stew that the sisters would doll out during the Satinalia. Everyone benefited from the sisters' generosity, and they were more than happy to share with everyone the gifts of the Maker. Loghain could not even begin to guess what was growing in the little earthen plots that lined the stone path he walked. _

_The thunder rumbled in the sky as Loghain gave the door a gentle push. It swung inward with a whisper of warm air and pliant metal, revealing to him the chantry's brightly lit, cozy interior. As he expected, the sisters were busy with their work. Some were chanting, while others kneeled in prayer. A few were shelving books; others were copying pages from large manuscripts. The templars on duty paid him no heed as he entered. He tracked rain water across the sisters' clean floors, his heavy footsteps breaking the gentle sound of chanting and page turning. _

_The Revered Mother was standing before the altar of Andraste, but turned to him as he approached. She smiled at him sadly when she recognized his face, her wizened features crinkling like rumpled parchment. "Your Grace," she inclined her head. "Our sincerest condolences on the loss of your wife. Teyrna Celia was much beloved and will be sorely missed." _

_Loghain could only nod. His voice felt thick at the woman's show of sympathy. It had been the Revered Mother who had introduced them at Loghain's first Satinalia. As Teyrn of Gwaren, it was his right to taste the first bowl of stew. Celia had been the one to bring it to him. "My daughter is here?" _

_She nodded. "She is. Come, I will take you to her." The Revered Mother beckoned Loghain follow with a gentle crook of her spindly fingers. _

_There was a room in every chantry that was enchanted for the short-term preservation of bodies. Those recently departed and awaiting proper rites were placed upon the simple altar at the room's center. It was here that friends and loved ones could come to pay their last respects and light a candle in remembrance of the flame the Maker had taken. _

_Celia's room had hundreds of tiny, flickering candles. "One for every person in Gwaren," the Revered Mother said quietly, before putting her on the small of his back in a gesture of farewell. _

"_Thank you, Revered Mother," he said absently, focused more on the sight of his steel-spined daughter than anything else. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. It was a _damn_ cold room. Loghain drew his cloak tightly around his broad frame, his rain soaked body shivering. _

_Anora made no sound or movement to indicate that she had acknowledged his presence. She stood motionless in front of her mother's veiled corpse. Anora was a curious creature. She was a woman through and through, for she loved fashion and fine, sparkly things, having outgrown her tomboyish ways. Yet, her demeanor was utterly that of a man. She was strong-willed, pragmatic, and refused to yield to her emotions. She had been a painfully rational child, adventurous, bold, and with an impertinent scowl on her pretty young face. _

_She was so different from the other children Loghain had seen. She had been nothing like Bryce's littlest who, at his most recent visit, had embraced Loghain's knee rubbed her grubby cheeks all over him, and crooned out, "River Dane! River Dane! River Dane!" before her mother had pried her away squealing and laughing from the long expanse of his legs. Bryce had only smiled apologetically at the interruption to their meeting and said, "You're her favorite bed time story." _

_Anora would never have done such a thing, because Anora was like Loghain, for all the good that did her. She was an indomitable fortress of willpower and tightly checked emotionality. Neither of them liked sentimentality, and displays of affection between them were awkward, at best. Even now, as they stood side by side before the lace-veiled corpse of someone they dearly loved, they did not touch or seek to offer the other physical comfort. _

"_Why did you not tell me?" asked Loghain, and he instantly regretted it. The broken silence had snuffed out a candle. _

"_Because she asked me not to," Anora replied. "What would you have done in my place?"_

"_Probably the same," he admitted. It was hard to deny Celia anything. He turned to look at his daughter's countenance. Celia was there in the golden waves of her hair, the gentle slope of her forehead, and the slender bones of her cheeks. The rest was all his influence. She had inherited his unfortunately shaped nose, cold eyes, and brazen lips. It was apparently a winning combination, as Anora had bewitched and enraptured Prince Cailan. "Was it at least peaceful?" _

_Anora nodded. "It was. She sighed, and then the life went out of her." _

_It brought Loghain a small measure of comfort to know that his wife's passing had not been painful. "Did she say anything? Have any instructions?" _

"_She wanted a pyre, and for her ashes to be strewn over her garden." Anora turned her head to her father, "I think you know which one." _

_He did. Her rose garden. She wanted to be strewn over the flowers that she had tended to so diligently year after year. "The roses." He would arrange for the pyre that evening. They would burn her when the rain abated. _

_Anora nodded again, and a silence passed between them for many moments until she broke it with a carefully aimed request. "I was thinking," she said quietly, "that I would come to Denerim." _

"_There is nothing for you in Denerim." He gave her a sidelong look. "Unless you go for the prince?"_

"_No," Anora shook her head, ruffling her golden locks, "I go for myself. There is nothing for me in Gwaren." _

"_You do not wish to manage the estate?" Loghain knew it was a foolish question, and the way his daughter's eye twitched only verified his assumption. _

"_No. To be quite frank, father, I would rather run the Teyrn than run your house." _

_Loghain raised an eyebrow at his daughter's ambitious nature. "Running a house is not so different from a Teyrn, and will give you good experience for when you become Teyrna. One day, you will have to run your Teyrn and your house simultaneously." _

_This made Anora scowl. "Father, who do you suppose was in charge of the estate when mother was ill? I assure you; such a thing is not for me. There are libraries in Denerim, and people that I may converse with. Please, do not trap me in Gwaren. I will wither and die like mother if you do." _

_Loghain's intake of breath was sharp, and the sudden look of surprise in his daughter's eyes revealed that she recognized she had gone too far. Anora had understood from an early age the necessities of duty. In his brief visits home, she had made it a point to ask him about the affairs of the kingdom, and if there was anything she could do to help him. He was always touched at his daughter's offers of assistance, and always politely declined her with a fond kiss to her forehead. She had never expressed bitterness regarding the arrangement that kept her parents separated. _

"_That was cruel of me, father," she took his hand in her much smaller ones, "Forgive me." Her head bowed. "I am sorry."_

"_There is nothing to forgive," said Loghain, looking down into his daughter's face. "I have always urged you to speak your mind, and I will not start reprimanding you for it now." He cupped his daughter's stubborn chin in a free hand, tilting it upwards in a measure of fatherly affection. "You would be happier if you came to Denerim?"_

_Anora nodded. "Infinitely." _

"_And you are doing this for yourself?" Loghain's tone was questioning, "You are not doing this for anyone else?"_

"_You are speaking of Cailan," Anora's expression was one of amusement. A blonde eye brow was raised and she had a surprised quirk to her lips. She tugged her chin from his gauntlet. "Why are you concerned about him?" _

"_My concern is about your happiness, not his. I am your father, Anora. You are all I…" the words lodged themselves in his throat, but he ground them out because they had to be said, "you are all I have left. I know your mother was not always happy, but for you, I would - " _

_Anora raised her hand, having heard the slight falter in her father's voice. She gave him a stern look, warding off the rising tide of emotions between them both. "No. Do not speak like that. She was perfectly happy. We all three of us had a wonderful life." She saw the disbelief on his features and pursed her lips. "She was _happy_, father. Truly, you must believe me. I was here to see it. I knew her heart."_

_Loghain managed a bitter smile. His eyes wandered over the face that was as familiar as his own. Proud, stubborn Anora. Bright, pretty, and smart, with a caustic way of speaking and a curious sense of humor. Celia had been intensely proud of her. "Of course she was happy." He absently pushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "She had you." _

_His daughter inhaled quickly, and pulled back from him. She gave a violent shake of her head, pursed her lips into a thin line of displeasure in an attempt to displace the sudden stab of sorrow. "Do not." She placed her hand on her chest to contain the sob bubbling within her, pushing hard to keep it squashed deeply inside. Her fingers clutched at the pale grey silk of her dress, as if she could somehow trap her frantically beating heart with her grip. She gave her father a fractured smile before covering it with a slender, trembling hand. Her blue eyes were wide, round, and troubled. They blinked fiercely, batting away tears that demanded recognition. Unyielding Anora would not show or shed them. __She held up a hand, asking her father for a moment, to forgive her for her lapse. _A Mac Tir was always strong and she would compose herself appropriately. 

_Loghain saw his expression mirrored in hers. Anora was a storm encased in ice. Her emotions beat and raged against the hard, cold shell of their cage, but were unable to escape. They were visible for all to see, but impossible to touch. Loghain's storm was Anora's storm. He had helped breathe life into the fury of feeling that was trapped in both their breasts. _

_It pained him physically to see Anora in such a state of distress, just as he knew it pained her to see him in the same manner. In that secret, chilly room, where no one could see their masks crack, they embraced one another. He took her into his arms, tucking her head below his chin. He was wet from the downpour outside, the metal of his armor was chilled from the enchantments of the room, and he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He was not made for comfort, but for Anora, he would try. Her pale hands pillowed against the coldness of his breastplate, just above his heart, and she laid her cheek upon them. Anora trembled against him, shoulders convulsing against the metal of his gauntlets as she pressed tightly into the circle of his arms. _

_They held each other in that tearless embrace for hours, too proud to succumb fully to their grief, but too pained to disregard it entirely. Their family had been broken, and they clung to one another for much needed security. Both were scared, but neither felt alone. Loghain had Anora, and Anora had Loghain. For father and daughter, this was enough._

* * *

_I admit, I tampered a little with Anora's age in this piece. I__ have her around seventeen here, but I believe Celia died when she was younger. A slightly older Anora coming to live in Denerim with Loghain makes more sense to me in the long run, since I think she'd have more flexibility to maneuver in political circles and do as she pleased. Plus, it puts her at an age where she's in the middle of defining herself. She recognizes that she doesn't want to be like her mother, she'd rather be like her father. _

_Amusingly enough, this Interlude was supposed to be about the River Dane. Strange where your muses take you..._

_As always, I am humbled by the readers who review, alert, and follow. I would never have guessed November of last year, when this story sat all alone in the Loghain section, that it would become so popular. Hah. You guys are excellent._


	33. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25 **

Returning to the Grey Warden compound was difficult, but necessary. The Warden knew she was about as welcomed at the compound as she was at the palace, which was to say, not very much. She was an outsider at one, just as much as she was an "insider" at the other. To be an outcast amongst her fellow Wardens robbed her of friends and security, but to be an insider at the Orlesian court meant much the same thing. Even knowing that Dane and Loghain were waiting for her brought her little comfort. Dane would not leave her out of love, and Loghain would not leave her out of sheer spite. Loghain would rather die with a Fereldan enemy than an Orlesian friend, and while they were not exactly enemies, they were not exactly friends, either.

She had come to think of Celene as a friend, even a mentor, but she was beginning to reconsider such thoughts. Celene was busy cavorting with men who were monstrous, worst of all, she was masquerading _as _the Warden to sate whatever ridiculous fantasies those men had in mind. How strange the Empress was. To think, she would actually _encourage _her lover to call her by another's name! The Warden had nearly skinned Loghain for the mistake, and she could not imagine a world where she would have done differently. The Empress of Orlais was a powerful, beautiful woman, who by all rights should have had the ego to demand nothing less than her name on another's lips. What sort of game was she playing? What could she receive out of such a union? Had she ever considered the Warden a friend, or was she using her?

Thoughts of friends and friendship made the Warden halt just before the gate to the compound. She cast her eye upward, looking at the tightly packed stones of the archway. The stones were symbolic of the Grey Wardens. A wall of stones was symbolic of just about any tightly knit group, she reflected. Above her, she could see the keystone of the arch and a faint, weathered griffon engraved upon it. Remove that stone, and the entire arch would collapse. Remove the Grey Warden Commander, and the Grey Wardens would collapse. Remove the Grey Wardens, and the entire world would collapse under the weight of the next Blight.

"What're you looking at?"

It was Alaric. The young mage was walking out of the arch, a brown bundle in his arms. It matched the muddy color of his robe. He came to stand beside her, tilting his head back to see what she saw.

"There's a griffon on the keystone," explained the Warden, bringing a hand up to shield her good eye from the sun. "I was just musing on what it meant."

"Probably just decorative. There are lots of motifs like that scattered around the compound." Alaric shrugged. "Where were you coming from? I didn't think you were summoned to the castle today?"

"Oh, I was just coming in from a walk," the Warden lied, grey eye still on the massive keystone. "I needed some time to myself. I think best when I am alone."

"Ah," Alaric nodded. "I understand. Things haven't been easy for you, I'm sure."

"That is quite the understatement, but," the Lady flashed him a smile, turning her attention to the bundle in Alaric's arms, "I understand why things are the way they are. Say," she made a quick move to switch to the topic, "What are you carrying, Alaric?"

Alaric placed a hand over the brown bundle. "A pair of robes that I need fixed."

"Can you not sew?"

The mage chuckled. "That's an odd thought. Me? Sew?"

"Well, why not?" The Warden placed her hands on her waist and let a hip jut out. "I thought the benefits would have been obvious. You run around in a long, frilly robe made of cloth and bits of animal hide. It is bound to need tending, especially if it gets snagged on a branch."

"Can you wield a blacksmith's hammer and fix your armor?" Alaric retorted, shifting the bundle in his arms. He saw the Warden's raised eyebrow. "That's what I thought."

The Warden shook her head. "Wielding a blacksmith's hammer isn't quite the same as wielding a needle and thread. Besides, a needle and thread is portable. A forge? Not so much, my friend."

"You wielding a hammer is like me wielding a needle and thread. I can't sew."

"I could teach you sometime," the Warden offered, "though I am not exceptional at it myself. Loghain always," her voice went low as she trailed off into thought, "criticizes my stitches. He is a much better tailor."

"Hard to imagine him as anything but a warrior, him being the Hero of River Dane and all, but," Alaric grinned, "Grey Wardens take all sorts, I suppose. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to run these robes over to Lyra and Genn before Flavius gets there before me."

The Warden blinked. "Do I want to know?"

Alaric grimaced at her, his ruddy cheeks flushing at the images that danced in his mind. "You don't. Bastard has holes in his smalls the size of a fist."

"Too much, Alaric," the Warden shooed him away with a swish of her wrist, "too much!" The thought of what could cause fist sized holes in Flavius's smalls was shocking. That he had a pair of poor seamstresses to tend to them even more so.

"I will see you at dinner tonight!" Alaric called over his shoulder, waving a hand at her as he left.

The Warden shook her head and rubbed at her face. She wore a thoughtful expression as she considered Alaric in her mind's eye, considering his honest manner of speaking and unfailing kindness. He was perhaps the one Grey Warden who _did _like her. And at least he was normal.

Well, as normal as a mage could be. With a stretch of her shoulders and a low groan, the Warden steadied herself for her inevitable meeting with Serge, someone who she was sure _didn't _like her. Actually, that wasn't true. She expected Serge was merely indifferent towards her. Though he smiled at her and appeared to have warm intentions towards her, none of his supposed sentiments reached his eyes. In fact, very little reached his eyes. He had a curiously blank stare, and seemed to look through her rather than at her.

If she was honest with herself, it reminded her of Uldred's stare in the Circle of Magi. Uldred had been a whirlwind of emotions and charisma, but had dead eyes. None of his fervor had crept into them. He, like Serge, had a soulless stare, and she supposed to be a blood mage, one had to be relatively soulless. Serge was a _very _good blood mage, by the looks of things.

Serge's office was in the large, stone building amidst the training courtyards. It was the Grey Warden central building of operations, and it was there that the Warden Commander, his Second, and anyone else of importance had their offices. The Warden had never seen the doors to this building closed, and she was curious as to the reason why. She doubted that it was because Serge was always in his office, and suspected that perhaps they were propped open for symbolic rather than practical reasons. They bid all Grey Wardens to enter, but spoke nothing of departure. Like exotic flowers that trap their prey with opened petals and sweet smells, so too might she trapped. The Warden squared her shoulders and entered the building. The air smelt like secrets and lies, and hung stale and old in her nose.

She passed through the war room, which was nothing more than a large, circular table with a large map of Thedas spread across the top. Various standards and pennants of the different nations and races that coexisted within the Grey Wardens hung around the room, interspersed between the wall sconces of the room. There were no chairs in the war room and it was not hard to imagine plate-clad figures standing around the table, pointing at the map, and speaking in low, worried tones about the spread of the Blight and the fall of Grey Warden companies to the Darkspawn. They might even have small figurines with which to move around the map. She had seen such things before, in Loghain's tent at Ostagar. Where the Grey Wardens kept such figurines, the Warden did not know.

Passing through the war room, the Warden entered a long corridor that stretched to the far end of the building. It was narrow, and lit only by the large, distant window opposite her. Doors lined the corridor. Most were dusty and out of use, with engraved nameplates that had seen better days. Other doors seemed relatively well-used, their handles slick with fingerprints. It was painfully obvious which door was Serge's, for it stood open and emitted a faint blue light. There was also Serge's distinct smell of forbidden magic and heavy spices that drifted to her down the corridor from the open door.

"Serge?" the Warden called, announcing her presence before she hovered in his doorway. "I have returned."

"Ah, excellent." Serge was sitting at his desk and looking much the same as he did that morning at breakfast and during her duel with Flavius. He was spinning a long, thin quill between his fingers, regarding her through the thick veil of his eyelashes as she entered.

Serge's office was tiny. It was about the size of a wardrobe, and held about the same assortment of items too. There was one, circular window right above Serge's head, which let in only small amount of dim, dirty light since the sun was on the opposite side of the building. There were several rows of shelves lining the narrow walls. On the shelves sat a variety of artifacts and books, including several glowstones, which were providing the room with its unearthly blue glow. The Warden squeezed into the small space, mindful of the way things jutted out from the walls. Maker's breath, but there was barely enough room to stand three people side by side, let alone fit a desk, two chairs, shelves, and a surprisingly green plant.

"Come in, don't hover," Serge waved her in with a flick of his wrist, gesturing with the quill to the seat in front of him.

The Warden edged around the shelves as she pulled out the chair, doing her best not to ruffle anything with her elbows or knees. "Are all the offices like this?"

The blood mage chuckled. "Absolutely. They did not build this structure for luxury, let me tell you. I can almost understand why Marcus would choose to spend all his time with the Empress. I know I would, if I had this to look forward to everyday. Oh, but I do, hmmm. I suppose I should make a call on the Empress too, yes?"

The Warden kept her silence and folded her hands in her lap. Whatever Serge wished to insinuate, she wanted no part of. If he desired to know what had transpired, he would have to ask. She would not just freely hand over the information, not if he was going to speak in such a manner.

"So, tell me then, little peach," Serge dropped the quill into its inkwell and leaned forward on the desk. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, regarding the Warden intently as she sat across from him, "did you find Vidar?"

It crossed her mind briefly to lie. She could deny having seen Vidar, and then she could leave this stuffy office. But another thought entered her mind almost as quickly: Serge was a blood mage. If she lied, he could always force the information out of her. He could get into her blood, into her thoughts, and make her confess. The Warden was ill-prepared for such a situation. "I did."

Serge lifted his eyebrows to urge her to continue, but was met only with the Warden's impassive stare. "And? What did you find? Is he well?"

"He looked well enough." It was a truthful statement. Vidar had looked _very _well. He was a handsome, hale man. His skin had held the healthy flush of activity, and his eyes had glittered with untold wickedness. He looked much better between the Empress's legs than she had ever seen him in person.

"Did you not speak?'

The Warden shook her head. "No, we did not really speak."

"Ah," Serge nodded, "I see. Did you not have time?"

"He was busy," the Warden admitted carefully. "Entertaining the Empress. I spoke with Marcus, though. He seemed…" How could the Warden phrase it politely? "A little under the weather."

"How rain clouds can be 'under the weather,' I will never know," replied Serge. He pursed his lips in thoughts. "I should write an angry letter to the Empress, yes? I have to scold her about leeching up the time of three Grey Wardens."

"Well," the Warden shrugged, "I can't speak for Marcus or Vidar, but it is not as though I've anything better to do. I can't leave the city, and both you and Marcus don't seem to trust me enough to let me attend to my duties. So, -"

"Ah, ah, ah," Serge waved a finger, "you are our guest. Or you are Marcus's guest, rather, and I thought it was customary to absolve guests of duties? Or do you make your guests work for their keep in Ferelden?"

"I am a Warden Commander, Serge. I have _duties _that I need to see to."

Serge chuckled once more. "Come now, surely you are learning about the Grey Wardens? Is that not duty enough?"

The Warden was learning a great deal about the Grey Wardens. Probably the _wrong _things, too. "I am learning more about the Grey Warden culture of Val Royeaux, rather than the Grey Wardens themselves. I understand that the Anderfels are very different from Orlais, and so I would expect the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt to behave very differently from the Grey Wardens here."

"That is an excellent observation," the blood mage nodded, "and a correct one too. You are hopefully also learning how _not _to run your Fereldan compound, I trust? Your Grey Wardens must come first, before all else."

"I can assure you," the Warden said dryly, "that whatever Marcus is to the Empress, I am not that to King Alistair."

"Good. I cannot impart upon you enough the importance of this. You must not be an absent leader," Serge advised in a beguilingly gentle voice, "you must always be with your Wardens."

"That is hard advice to accept," the Lady smoothed her hands down her stomach and settled them on her lap once more, "given that I have been uprooted from 'my Wardens.'"

"You have Wardens?" Serge raised an eyebrow, "Truly, I was unaware that there were more Grey Wardens in Ferelden than just you, Loghain, and Alistair."

"I had potential Wardens."

"You have one Warden under your command now, and had no Wardens prior to leaving Ferelden."

It was the Warden's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she did so with much suspicion. "How do you know that, Serge? How do you know the state of Vigil's Keep?"

"Because I have a letter." A small piece of parchment materialized between the blood mage's long fingers. "From Andraste."

"And you didn't say a damn thing," the Warden pushed away from Serge's desk in disgust, moving to stand. "I can't hope for a measure of transparency anywhere, can I?"

"Oh, you misunderstand. This came from Andraste shortly before you arrived." He offered the Warden the parchment. "Here. Our mail is several months behind, unfortunately. This looks to be her first letter."

The Warden eyed the paper warily, before slowly taking it from his hand. Her fingers brushed against his, and the Warden felt a shock of electricity run down her spine. She narrowed her eyes at Serge, who suddenly turned a flattering shade of pink.

"I can't control that," he explained sheepishly. "My apologies. Not intentional."

The Lady flicked out the piece of parchment with her wrist, snapping the little paper open. Andraste's handwriting was a scrawling mess of tiny words and diagrams. It was clear she had drawn a diagram of Vigil's Keep, along with little notes of defenses and…Maker's breath, were those _holes?_ Her eyes darted over the writing. Most of it was indecipherable, since she could not read Orlesian, and there were water stains on the parchment that spread and warped the ink. "What exactly does it say?"

Serge shrugged. "It is just a review of what is happening in Ferelden. Andraste will explain more when she returns. Suffice to say, she spoke to your Seneschal Varel, and he says that there were no Grey Wardens, in training or otherwise, waiting to take the Joining."

"She misinterpreted Varel." The Warden stilled her feelings of indignation. "While Loghain and I were away, he and our Sergeant at Arms, Cauthrien, were to recruit, screen, and train potential Grey Wardens. We would administer the Joining ritual once we had learned how to do it. Thank you for the description of it, by the way."

"My pleasure." Serge inclined his head, his expression thoughtful. "I could see how such a situation might be misinterpreted, though it was meant with little disrespect in regards to your command. I know that you had little choice in coming to us and insufficient time to truly implement your plans."

The Warden chose not to respond to that.

"Little peach," said Serge in a quiet voice, having take notice of her stoniness, "give me one of your cold, war torn hands."

She shook her head. "No, Serge."

"Do you not trust me?"

"I do not trust anyone."

"Pfeh," he made a face of distaste, "that matters little. Give me your hand."

"No."

"What do you think I will do? Take control of you, hmm?" Serge raised both eyebrows in a sardonic expression, "I don't need to touch you to do that."

The Warden's face remained an impenetrable mask of scrutiny. "I just can't see why you should feel the need to touch me."

"Touch brings comfort, yes?" Serge extended one of his beautifully shaped hands. The fingers were long and elegant, the nails perfectly trimmed, and the palms smooth. "You look like you are in need of it."

The Warden frowned. "_How _do I look like I need comfort?" As far as the Warden knew, her face had been schooled into its well-trained appearance of neutrality. Her feelings were well hidden, though it was clear she was irritated by the wrinkling of her forehead, but such a revelation was at least _her _choice.

"I just _know,_" he replied. "I read your blood currents. I can see them below your skin, the way they quicken and slow. Your blood pumps quickly, without rhythm, in distress. It pumps the way it did when Flavius sang that ballad in the tavern. It does not have the even and mellow current of when your Second or your dog is nearby."

"That is a gross invasion of my privacy." The Lady's frown deepened and she would have raised her hands to cover herself if she knew it would have done any good. She couldn't hide her _blood _from this man, not when he could read it below her own skin! "And I do not appreciate it."

"Well, then you will have to tolerate it, since such a thing is not something I can merely stop. I am," Serge said in an unapologetic, matter of fact tone, "what I am, and I will do what I am good at. So either give me your hand or don't, I care not. I was just trying to be _kind, _since I know that the others have not been so with you. It is," he gave a belabored sigh, "the purpose of Senior Wardens to give succor and solace to the younger Wardens."

The only 'Senior Warden' who had managed to soothe the Warden had been Riordan. He had been a light in a dark place. Riordan's levity had drawn the Warden into a sense of ease that she had not felt since Loghain had wrapped his daughter's shawl about her shoulders in his tent at Ostagar. How had cheerful, humorous Riordan survived in such a den of snakes? She had a mind to go to Jader one day and see if the Wardens there were all like him.

"Your silence indicates you don't believe me."

"I agree that it is the job of the most senior Grey Wardens to shepherd the newest members and care for them when they lose their way. But you," the Warden spoke slowly and precisely, giving Serge a confident, even gaze, "you forcefully took control of my body and made me dance like a puppet on strings for your amusement. You seek now to offer me comfort?" She ran a tongue over her dry, chapped lips. "I am very confused, Serge, and I am not exactly sure what I should be learning from the Grey Wardens here. Am I to perpetuate a culture of mistrust and cruelty in Ferelden, or will I be allowed to, as you say, provide my Wardens with succor and solace without fear of coercion or retribution?"

"Succor your pawns," Serge replied, "and check your kings. Otherwise, your Ferelden will become Val Royeaux, and no one will rest easy."

The Warden gave a grunt of disapproval and shook her head, "this should not be a game, Serge. We should not have to speak of pawns or kings." Leadership, and life for that matter, was not a game. It was a series of calculated risks and rewards. Each sacrifice made in the name of duty needed to be done out of necessity, not for sport or entertainment.

"One thing that I learnt during my tenure as a Tower Mage, little peach" Serge settled back in his chair, resting his hands over his stomach, "is that we are all pawns of someone else. Whether we like it or not, this is the way it is. Either we fulfill our roles as pawns, or we seek to better ourselves and advance to a new rank. I started my life as a humble studier of spirits and chose to better myself."

"And now you are a blood mage," the Lady gave him a cool stare, "and can manipulate others to do your bidding." She watched his hands drum a tune on the soft, leather belt that was wrapped around his midsection. It was a rich, luxurious brown that complimented the deep, cranberry red of his robe.

"And so a pawn," Serge nodded, "became a queen. Oh, look," his lips pouted in an expression of fondness, as if he was speaking petulant but charming child, "your pretty face is scowling and giving you wrinkles. You will not have your youth forever, little peach; I would try and preserve it while I could. You do not have magic as I do to preserve your good looks."

"Do you drink the blood of fellow Grey Wardens to maintain your handsome features," the Warden said with a carefully controlled dose of venom in her voice, "or do you merely sap the life out of your newest recruits?"

"Ahaha!" Serge's head tipped back as he laughed, revealing the long column of his throat, "I have probably heard that statement as much as you've heard that you smell like dog! I suppose we are now even."

The Warden shook her head. "No, we are not even, Serge. There is still the matter of the volta."

"Ahhh, so you were lying to me when you said there were no hard feelings."

"Could you not just _read _my blood and find that answer for yourself?"

Serge paused in thought as he considered her question. "I could have, I suppose. I will admit," he flashed her a toothy grin, "and don't go around telling my secrets, little peach, or I shall be very cross," and then winked at her, "that it is sometimes hard to read those who have been recently possessed. There is too much of my magic, of myself, within them to get an accurate sense of what they truly feel and think. Rest assured though, little peach, I have not been in your head."

"A small comfort," the Lady sighed, "But you have my thanks."

Serge gave an elegant twitch of his shoulders, "However, if you give me cause to change my mind, do not think I wouldn't hesitate to do so."

Her jaw tightened at the thinly veiled threat. She felt her blood begin to cool and the small, almost imperceptible straightening of her spine. Her voice was mild when she spoke, carrying the same, nonchalant tone one might use to speak of the weather. "As death of a fellow Grey Warden merits punishment, should not also _rape _carry a punishment, as well?" For what Serge suggested was a fashion of rape.

"Oh, you are playing a tricky game of words," Serge was suddenly leaning forward against the desk. "And intentions." He matched her stare for stare.

The two Grey Wardens sat perched on opposite sides of the desk, staring at each other with unvoiced messages. For the Lady, the matter was simple: Serge was to cease his threats and stop holding himself above the law, or else she would _make _him accountable for his abuse of it _and _her. Serge had a gaze that was much more complex. It spoke of questions he wished to ask, the means by which he could get the answers, and the insult he felt at her lack of faith in him. He criticized her lack of honesty and the way she forced his hand. He _knew _she was keeping secrets.

"I would lead," the Warden said after a few moments of contemplating Serge's surprisingly earnest but arrogant face, "my Grey Wardens by example. They would trust me enough to tell me everything I needed to know. I would never need to resort to veiled threats," she let herself linger on the word before pushing on, "or insinuations to get my way."

"You are not very practical for a Fereldan, but I cannot fault your idealism. Would that you could live in such a world removed from the intrigue and power of your station." He offered her a faint smile. "The only way to do this is to advance yourself, by the way, so I suggest you heed my earlier words."

"Serge, I do not like this metaphor." The Warden, ever the strategist, found the simplicity of a _game _revolting and degrading.

"It is not a metaphor. Like this or not, little peach, but you are playing a game. You _will _play _this_ game." The blood mage spoke candidly and did not shield his ominous words. "You will either become very good at it, or you will not. If you are good, perhaps you will one day be the First of us all. If you are not, I suspect you will find your Calling lonely and your passing unmourned. Either way, you cannot escape it. You are not so great, Aurora Cousland," he narrowed his eyes at her, "that you can change or escape this simply by being who you are. You will conform to us or you will be torn apart by us. I tell you this not to scare you, but to teach you. To protect you."

The hollowness of Serge's eyes had been filled with a great, glittering emotion as he spoke of pawns and queens. They sparkled like stars in the whispers of sunlight that filtered down above him, and in the gloom, he watched her like a hunter eying his mark. A shiver of apprehension ran down the Warden's spine. She did not like Serge's eyes. She did not like that look. She had to wonder if this was how Celene had felt at the start of her rise to power. Had she seen the hungry, starving way people had looked at her, smelling in her their own desperation and opportunity?

The Warden brought up a hand pinched the bridge of her nose tightly. She did not want to continue this conversation. Everyone was dancing to someone else's tune, and she had to wonder whose tune Serge danced to. Still, there was no way to end the current conversation unless she agreed with Serge, for it was apparent he wanted to make the gravity of this "game" as clear as he could.

"I will," the Warden said quietly, "take your words under advisement. They have given me a lot to think about." She willed her blood to calm, to still in her veins. "Though I still do not like them." Serge shrugged at her, and she shrugged back. "But again, I will consider them."

"That is all I can ask for. Just remember," Serge tilted his head back and stared down the tip of his slender nose at her, "if you do not become a player, someone else may have to in your stead. Loghain, for example."

"Loghain would just as soon as cut out his tongue than play your games."

"Your second is an interesting man," Serge mused, "with many interesting quirks." His fingers toyed with Andraste's missive that lay on the desk before him. "Capable of doing many things, I suspect, that would surprise you."

"Of that, I have no doubt. He surprises me daily with the depth of his character and the strength of his resolve. Truly," the Warden spoke in quick, clipped tones, "I could ask for no better man." In paying these compliments to Loghain, the Warden was not lying. Whatever had transpired between them in her chambers was not something that she could allow to influence her judgments as Warden Commander. She could not deny Loghain's virtues anymore than she could his faults. Moreover, she knew the folly of publically condemning her only ally in this strange land, for like it or not, Loghain was all she had.

Her words brought a pleased smile to the blood mage's face. "It is good that you think so of him! Divided leadership is weak leadership. You must show solidarity, not only for your Grey Wardens, but for your entire country." Despite the practicality and wisdom of his words, there was a strange undertone to them.

Serge was in the Grey Warden chain of command. He had to maintain solidarity, to present an image of strength to other Grey Wardens. He could not be openly caustic towards his superiors or else he would dispel the illusion. The Warden had the distinct impression that he was _not _trying to impart upon her his wisdom, but was rather trying to communicate with her about the state of leadership within Val Royeaux. He had been referring to Marcus's faults. Everything Marcus had done, she was _not _to do.

"Are you hinting to me," the Warden leaned forward and dropped her voice to that of a whisper, "the situation here in Val Royeaux? Does Andraste not speak with Marcus? Is this why Marcus keeps to himself?"

Serge's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Consider it a metaphor for the larger whole of the Grey Wardens. Do you remember what I told you on your first day here?"

"That," the Warden scratched at her knee absently, "those Grey Wardens who seek solitude are often the most sick."

Serge nodded. "We are meant to cluster, to never be alone. We will always seek unity."

"Marcus does not seek unity."

"Did I say that?" Serge's grinned. "I said nothing. You are merely speculating."

Feeling chilled and weary (but oddly satisfied), the Warden stood. If Serge's look of smugness was anything to go by, it was likely that she was not going to pry anymore answers out of him. Her chair squealed along the worn wooden floor. "I am going to take my leave of you now, Serge."

"For the best, I think. I would hate for you to come to too many conclusions, little peach," and there was nothing but amusement in his words. "Go, find the Hero of River Dane and enjoy his company. It may soothe the quailing and quaking of your blood and rouse something in his."

The Warden raised a disbelieving eyebrow at his gall to suggest such a thing, and then picked her way out of his cluttered closet of an office. Her long legs carried her all the way back to her quarters at a steady pace. Her eye was distant and unfocused as she journeyed, and so she saw nothing of her surroundings or her fellow Wardens. She had barely enough willpower left to climb the stairs to her room, and she collapsed heavily on her small bed when she arrived there. Thoughts of Dane and Loghain filled her head as she fell into a dreamless sleep, resting for as long as she could for the remaining hours of sunlight.

As soon as it was dark, Loghain knocked on her door, and the Warden was pulled from her sleep as one pulls a drunken man from his barstool. She floundered against her bed, legs and mind heavy with her grogginess. Her tongue felt thick in her dry mouth. She smacked her lips together, and croaked out, "on my way," as she oriented herself. The floor wobbled below her feet and her hand missed the latch several times before she got a good grip on the thing. The door opened faster than she liked, and she caught it with her shoulder, the wood clattering painfully against it.

Dane and Loghain stood on the other side of the threshold, both wearing looks of amusement. Dane snuffled at her boots and bumped his head against her knee in greeting, while Loghain eyed her up and down for several moments before speaking.

"You look terrible."

"I feel terrible," she admitted, putting a hand to her mouth to hide her yawn. "It has been a long day."

With a familiarity that both thought was lost to them, Loghain reached up a hand and pushed a golden lock of hair out of her eyes. The leather of his gauntlets scratched their welcome against the skin at her temple. "One of your braids has come undone." She looked impossibly young to him as she stared at him blearily from her door. Her cheeks were flushed pink with sleep, though her lips were drawn and white. He could see something sad and hollow within them, a sullenness in their pull that spoke of a yearning for kinship, for companionship.

The Warden reached up behind her head and found Loghain spoke truthfully. Her left braid had slipped from its pins and was now hanging in a strange loop down her shoulder. "So it has," she replied softly, letting the heat of Loghain's gaze and the chilly air of the corridor bring her back to her senses.

They stood looking at each other in the awkward space of the Warden's doorframe, wide-eyed and unsure. The Warden's hand was tangled in her hair, and Loghain's hand was trailing its way down the side of her face, smoothing over her cheek in a whisper of leather on silk. He dragged his fingers over the curve of her jaw and then tilted her chin back with an ironclad finger. Her braid swung free of its prison and tumbled down her back, and the Warden rested her hand on his shoulder.

There was no reconciliation in their touch, or in the chaste, lonely kiss that followed it. Like frozen moths, the Warden's lips found Loghain's in a numb tangle of flesh. Her eye fluttered shut, as did his, at the pressure of his warm lips against hers.

The relationship between the Hero of River Dane and the Hero of Ferelden was a tenuous, morphing thing that neither could quite grasp. There was bitterness, but there was also an understanding: neither wanted to fight the other, even if they were too proud to admit it. The battle persisted purely out of the Warden's own spite, to which Loghain had been forced to match by criticizing her Orlesian loving ways. Loghain had apologized, or at least attempted to. It was up to the Warden to accept it.

The Warden found herself standing on her tiptoes, dragged to Loghain's armored chest by the sudden presence of his gauntlets on either side of her face. He kissed her in desperation, lips pressed furiously to hers as his thumbs glided over her cheekbones. He tasted the thick, acrid haze of sleep on her lips, and he would have felt it on his tongue if not for his need for air. His breath warmed her nose as he pulled his lips from hers. He dropped a kiss on her forehead, holding her head there against his lips.

Folding her hands on his shoulders, the Warden dug her fingers into the fine, Orlesian metal. She inhaled deeply, smelling Loghain as one might smell the first blossoms of spring. He had a thick, musky scent that reminded her of earth after the rain.

Dane whimpered and nudged at their legs with his head, forcing the Warden closer into Loghain's arms.

"Loghain," the Warden said, and she could feel his blue eyes looking down at the top of her head, "I -"

A door creaked in the hallway, and both Wardens stood apart from one another as quickly as they could. The Warden's hands were crossed in front of her chest, and Loghain had taken a respectful step back. The Warden watched a barrel-chested dwarven Warden that she knew by the name of Bhaldren pass them by. He gave them only a cursory stare before nodding politely at the one-eyed Warden Commander as he disappeared down the stairs.

Loghain's sudden chuckle brought her to the present, and she raised an eyebrow at his fond smile. "What do you find so funny?"

"Your hair."

"My hair is not funny."

He shook his head, still smiling. "I know. In that style, it just makes you look very young. Anora used to wear her hair like that when she was a child."

The Warden ran a hand down the tops of her twin braids in a gesture of self-consciousness. "I was going to wear my hair down for tonight. I assume," she said quickly, "that is why you were knocking at my door? To take me to dinner?"

"That I was," he agreed, pleased to hear the quiet undertones of warmth in her voice, "Strength in numbers."

"Hmm," the Warden raised her eyebrows at him, and stalked back into her room with a sway of her hips, "indeed."

Loghain followed after her and gently shut the door behind him so that they would not be interrupted again. Though it had ended too soon, kissing her in the hallway had been a blessed relief. Her lips against his, cold and trembling as they were, had been like a ray of sunshine across a frosty garden. It felt like there might be a new beginning for them. He did not know what made that day different from all the other days, but he was thankful regardless.

It felt _good _to have a conversation that was not laced in malice, where he did not feel as though he was being constantly challenged. Loghain loved a good challenge and was not the sort of man to back down from a fight. And so when the Warden sliced at him with her tongue, it was all he could do to slice back. For the past few months, he had sustained himself on his hatred of her sympathy for Orlais, of the way she accepted Orlesian gifts with guiltless delight. He was feeling that hatred ebb away as he watched her stand in front of her vanity, fingers tangled in her hair as she plucked out the pins that had kept her braids in place.

She did not look like a commander; she looked like a woman.

With some amusement, he watched the Warden stand on her tiptoes as she struggled with removing a particularly stubborn pin. She danced on the balls of her feet, swaying as her fingers twisted and pulled, as if the extra inches in height would somehow increase the length of her arms and quicken the rate of dislodging the pin.

Loghain padded behind her and swatted her fingers away. He gave a firm push to her shoulders, forcing her feet to the floor, before turning the matter of the pin. He gently parted the hair that was giving her trouble, pushing aside rambunctious curls until he could see the winking of the metal pin in the faint sunlight. He removed it slowly, careful not to pull out any delicate strands of golden hair. The pin was deposited in the Warden's open palm, and then Loghain returned to the task of pulling out all the remaining pins he could find. Three more pins joined their sibling, and he combed his fingers through her hair with the pretense of finding the rest. It felt thick and smooth between his fingertips, and he ran his fingers from root to tip.

Loghain found no more pins, but continued running his fingers through her glorious mane, his nails scraping against temple, scalp, and neck, until he finally he just buried his fingers in the golden curls and inhaled deeply.

"I have yet to open your 'gift,'" the Warden said quietly, feeling Loghain's cheek pressed against the back of her head. Her eye was closed as a result of his ministrations and she stood blissfully safe and content against his chest.

"It does not matter," he replied, his voice rumbling against her back, "at least, not anymore. I had hoped you would see it as my apology, but I am not very good at those, if you've yet to guess that already."

"It certainly did not come out that way; no."

"I am not the best choice of lover for a young woman." Loghain let the curls slip from his fingers and with a sigh stepped away from her. "I let my vanity and my ego get in the way of my sensibilities, and for that I will always be sorry. For what it's worth, I should have said no."

"It is not worth much, since I did not want you to say no at the time." She pulled her hair over her shoulder and looked at Loghain, regarding him with her good eye. "And I am glad you didn't."

"Oh?" Loghain couldn't stop the way one of his thick eyebrows rose at her comment. "And for what reason would that be?"

"_My _ego and _my _vanity." The Warden gave a small grunt at the obvious and combed her fingers through her hair, trying to erase the sensation of his fingers. She turned back to the small mirror on the vanity and caught her dusty reflection in the glass. She was a proud and pretty thing.

"Would you have been hurt more by my initial rejection, then?" asked Loghain with curiosity, surprised that they were talking about what had happened without him dodging objects sharper than her tongue.

"You _did _reject me, initially. You just did not reject me _permanently_."

"Ah, and to think, it was I who was wondering if you had rejected _me_ permanently. I think it has been over two months since I've seen you smile honestly in my direction." Loghain had missed those pretty lips and their lovely little quirks.

"You missed my smile?" The Warden touched a tentative hand to her lips, charmed by the thought. She chuckled behind her fingertips. "Of all things?" She cast her eye once more to Loghain, who was standing lost in the middle of her bed chamber. He looked out of place in her private sanctuary dressed in his armor and with his sword belted firmly at his side. His arms, like his braids, dangled helplessly. His fingers twitched, as if looking for something to do.

Loghain watched her turn towards him, her fingers to her lips in embarrassed amusement. He had tickled her vanity. His eyes narrowed as he recognized his opportunity, and he stalked towards her. "I missed _you_, you miserable chit." The last time he'd called her that, she had sent him packing from her room with a stern bark of reproach. Now, she merely closed her eye and shook her head, turning her face from the hand he raised towards it. She pulled away from him, moving towards her dresser and left him standing with an outstretched hand. It curled into a fist and dropped to his side.

"I missed you too, Loghain." The Warden rubbed at her forehead and tried to ignore the pinpricks of heat between her shoulder blades from where Loghain's eyes were staring at her. "I _still _miss you."

"Aurora, I am right here." But Loghain saw her shake her head. "Oh, but I suppose it cannot be that easy then?"

"No, it cannot. The only thing I know for certain," the Warden took a deep breath and then turned to face him, "is that I am your commander. Everything else regarding us, I do not know. And," she held up her hand to stop him from speaking, "I don't know if I'm ready to know. You say you miss me…but is it me that you miss? Or do you miss someone that I remind you of? For I will tell you now, Loghain, that I will be no man's substitute. I deserve more than that."

"You do," Loghain agreed. His little chit of a Warden Commander had said those same words to him before, with far more passion than she said them now, but he knew she meant them no less. "And you deserve more than what this battered body can give you." He said this with a rueful smile. "So, I merely ask that you consider us to be friends. Should you desire more from me," Loghain let a thoughtful pause linger between them, "then we will just have to see what the Maker has planned."

The Warden nodded gratefully at this. "Thank you. I accept your offer of friendship." She smiled at him, giving him what he claimed to have missed so much. She felt the shadowy trappings of loneliness melt away at the awestruck expression he gave her, before returning her joy with a smaller smile of his own. Loghain offered her his arm, beseeching her to take it with his eyes.

And as the Warden, Loghain, and Dane made their way to the Grey Griffon, it seemed that everything was right in the world. Their conversation that night was friendly and earnest, lacking their usual cruel barbs and jests. Even their silences were friendly, and the two Wardens stared at each other in the glow of the firelight and smiled. All around them other Grey Wardens would sing and chatter and dance, but at their quiet table in the corner, Loghain and the Lady had no other world except each other. When it was that they departed for their rooms that evening, Loghain placed a solemn kiss on his commander's forehead and bid her sleep well.

In the morning they rose, met for breakfast, and spent the rest of the day in each other's company. With no messages from the Empress, the two Wardens explored the little shops and streets surrounding the Grey Warden compound. With Dane following happily at their heels, they strode arm in arm, armored and unarmored, armed and unarmed, through the streets; where _Chevalier _of Ferelden Loghain Mac Tir went, so too went a lovely, fair-haired barbarian and her wild war dog. Peasants parted at Loghain's scowl, and it was all the Warden could do _not _to smirk at the reason why. But she kept her tongue, and let Loghain have his peace.

This routine of gentle companionship lasted until the week's end, when a message from Marius arrived. Serge was there to greet the two Grey Wardens at the door to the Grey Griffon, the little note between his long fingers.

"Little peach," Serge said in a solemn voice, "it would appear Marcus has come to a decision about you. He bids you attend him at the palace."

"Well, hopefully it is a good one, yes?" The Warden let her most confident of smiles slip on her face, but something in Serge's expression warned her that Marcus had not been convinced by her story. "I suppose I shouldn't keep him waiting."

"Yes, we shouldn't keep him waiting." Loghain put a hand on the small of the Warden's back and interposed himself between her and the blood mage. He plucked Marcus's note from Serge's hand as they left, giving the man a firm nod. Serge did not nod back in response, merely stared blankly after the two departing Wardens and their war dog.

"His note is very vague," said Loghain after skimming it. "Here, read it." He offered it to the Warden, who took it with eager fingers.

"_See me as soon as you can, for I have come to my decision_…" The Warden chuckled, "you would think he was sentencing me to death. You can see where his quill has scratched holes in the parchment!" She held it up to the sunlight for emphasis. "Maker's breath."

Loghain eyed the holes in the paper and raised an eyebrow. "He was very eager to write that."

"And I am eager," the Warden replied, "to hear what he has to say."

"Even if you don't like it?"

She nodded. "Even if I don't like it. I will just be pleased to know what someone honestly _thinks _of me, rather than agreeing with me and doubting me all the same."

Loghain had no response to that.

Together, the two Grey Wardens marched their way up to the palace. Through the winding courtyards of the Empress and up the stairs into the throne room they passed. Unmolested by guards and by courtiers, they found the palace to be a surprisingly empty place. The throne room itself was devoid of any sign of life, save Marcus, who sat perched on the arm of Celene's golden swan throne. He had one foot resting on a gilded wing, while the other remained flat on the floor.

He appeared to be a very different man than the first time either Warden had seen him. Dressed in a leather tunic and pants, he had seemed but a normal person. Now, he looked as the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux might. With a silver cloak strewn over a shoulder and a circlet of silver upon his brow, he looked more like a king than a commander. His armor was black, and on his breastplate he bore the mark of the Grey Wardens in shining platinum. While the dark armor seemed to absorb all the light in the room, neither shining nor glossy, the griffons on his chest reflected it in a dazzling display of white sparkles.

Marcus eyed Loghain with some surprise. "Ah, I see you have brought your Second, Aurora. I was not expecting both of my Fereldan guests to join me." His eyes turned to Dane, who had his nose to the ground. The Mabari was snuffling along the carpet, having picked up the scent of something interesting, and was now working his way along the perimeter of the room.

"We were both curious as to what you had to say," explained the Lady, admiring Marcus's armor. She took no notice of Dane's curiosity, though Loghain snapped his fingers to get the dog's attention and failed miserably in doing so.

The Commander of Val Royeaux merely nodded his head. "Well," he stood, armor clattering at the movement, "allow me first to converse with you in private, Warden Commander, since there are things that we must discuss alone. We can then," he sent a sly gaze at Loghain, "include your Second, and see what he has to say."

The Warden raised her eyebrow at this, but could see no reason to disagree. It was likely that Marcus wanted to speak about what had transpired between the Empress and Vidar, and the Warden did not want Loghain to know what had happened. It would only put a strain on their slowly mending friendship. "Very well. Loghain," she touched his arm gently, "make sure Dane doesn't chew on anything. We'll be back shortly."

Loghain stiffened at the command, but said nothing. He narrowed his eyes at Marcus, who merely made a large, overly exaggerated shrug before extending his hands, palm facing upward, in Loghain's direction. An odd set of movements, but Loghain had not the mind to pay them any heed, since Dane looked to be raising his leg over one of the Empress shaped pillars.

Extending a black gauntlet to the Warden, Marcus led her away through one of the almost hidden side doors. He did not take her far down the corridor, merely to his guest suite were the Empress had tucked him away during the Blight. The guest quarters were kept near the throne room so as to facilitate the pleading and hearing of cases by the Empress. They were also kept as far away from her royal apartments as possible, to ensure her safety.

The room he took her to served as an office, and already in the short amount of time he had stayed there, he had filled the small room with a variety of personal affects. There were vases and books, shelves and trinkets, as well as flags of Orlais and Empress Celene's house resting in long, gilded jars on either side of the room. At the center of the room, flanked by two grand windows, was a large, leather inlaid writing desk. There were no parchments or quills atop the desk. Its only ornament was a long, wicked looking polearm that was as black as Marcus's armor. Red runes shone along the blade's edge, giving off a faint glow that reflected sinisterly on the green leather of the desk.

The Warden hesitated at the doorsill, her gaze having caught the cruel weapon. She took a step back, to try to move out of the room, but Marcus was behind her, blocking her exit. He had one hand on the door he had pushed open and the other on her back.

"Is something amiss, Lady Cousland?" he asked in a low voice.

"No," said the Warden carefully, pulling her shoulders forward and away from his broad chest. "Your weapon caught me by surprise."

"She is a finely made blade." Marcus placed applied gentle pressure between the Warden's shoulder blades, forcing her forward. "Come now, don't be so shy…"

"I am not shy," said the Warden loudly, hoping her voice carried down the hallway and into the throne room where Loghain was waiting. She could see the Empress's throne through the veiled doorway, and it brought her a small measure of comfort to know that he was near. "I was just taken by surprise."

"And you have lost control of the volume of your voice," Marcus chuckled. "Charming. Is it your nerves?" He gave a stronger push, and the Warden's feet shuffled forward past the threshold. She felt Marcus squeeze behind her and then the sudden breeze of the door closing.

The Warden's eye twitched when she heard the ominous _click _of a lock and the jangle of keys.

"Now," Marcus stepped around her and gestured to one of the high-backed, leather chairs before his desk, "sit and let us talk."

"I would prefer to stand," the Warden replied, eyes darting around the room for possible exits and potential weapons. There were books, many books, and those she could throw at him. The chairs she could use as a shield if Marcus chose to turn that polearm against her, and if push came to shove, Celene's standard appeared to be of a sturdy enough wood that it could function as a polearm in its own right. Or at least, the base of one. Great for striking long distance, but cumbersome to use as a defense…

"Whatever you wish," Marcus shrugged. He took his seat behind the desk, leaning on his couters as he regarded her. He was perched on the edge of his chair, almost eagerly. "I will not waste your time, Aurora, for you do not have much of it."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Who you are to say such things to me?"

"Me? I am the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux, the Commander of the Grey of Orlais, and the s_enior_ Grey Warden in this matter. As such," he gave her a small smile, "it has been my duty to come to a decision, and since Weisshaupt has not responded to my letters, I will assume that their silence implies their trust in me."

Shaking her head in disbelief, the Warden merely waited for him to continue.

"I have," said Marcus, shifting on the edge of his chair, "come to a conclusion about you, Aurora." He spoke in a tone that matched the glittering of his warm, blue eyes. It was dark, menacing, and sent all the butterflies in the Warden's stomach scurrying up her windpipe.

The Warden gave a small exhale of nervous breath. "And what have you decided, Marcus?" She lifted her chin, gazing at the Warden Commander as her equal.

"Do you know," he regarded the Warden with a grave expression, "what sets you apart from the other Grey Wardens who have ended the Blight?"

"Nothing springs to my mind," she replied warily. "Why? What conclusion have you come to?"

"They were all men." Marcus gestured to her, "Quite ironically, they were all men. And here you are, a woman, and you end the Blight."

"I," the Warden chewed on her lip, "do not see how being a woman should hinder the slaying of the Archdemon. We are just as capable as -"

Marcus raised a hand and interrupted her. "Spare me a lecture on what women can do. I know very well your capabilities. But now I must ask you a basic question, one that all Grey Wardens during a Blight must know the answer to. Tell me, where does the Archdemon go when it is slain?"

"Into the body of the nearest Grey Warden," replied the Warden, "It destroys their soul. That's why there is sacrifice in death."

"True," he canted his head, "but there is another possibility, one that no Grey Warden can forget. The Archdemon can find a new host." His eyes dropped to the Warden's stomach. "You live, because the Archdemon found a host _inside you. _ It is _waiting _to be born. You are a woman. It sits in your _womb._ This is what distinguishes you from everyone else, what distinguishes a woman from a man."

"What?" The Warden took a step back in surprise at the suggestion. Her elbow jostled a glass ornament on the edge of a bookshelf and sent it shattering to the floor. "That is _ridiculous. _It is absurd!"

"You have a soul, but you did not die, and the Archdemon did not take another host." Marcus shrugged at her once more, as if the conclusion he had made was obvious. "By your own admissions, this is what happened. What other option is there? A Grey Warden _must _die; something _must _die in order for the Archdemon to live. The essence of the Archdemon is waiting in your womb for a chance at new life, waiting to destroy the soul of your first unborn child."

"You speak as though I'm with child," the Warden placed a protective hand to her stomach, "which I very well am not!"

"Old magic lingers," Marcus explained, "it can wait for its opportunity to rise once more."

"It would be impossible. What new life could it have? I am a Grey Warden. The chances of conception for me are small, almost nonexistent."

Marcus waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Without magical aid, that is true. And even with magical aid, it is still difficult. Nevertheless, there is still the chance that you will conceive and the Archdemon will wait for that chance. Some hope is better than no hope."

"Well, now that you've come to your completely _insane _conclusion, Marcus, what do you plan?" The Warden touched a hand to her breast, "what proof do you have of this?"

"I have no proof," Marcus admitted, "only my theory, and I am not willing to force conception upon you to validate my suspicions. I would no more wish to bring the Archdemon into this world than you would."

"_Force _conception on me?" The Warden recoiled in disgust and ran unsteady hands over the two braids coiled tightly at her neck. "Monstrous." The things Marcus spoke to her of were _horrifying. _ They were the stuff of nightmares.

"I said," Marcus replied crossly, "that I would not do it. It would go against the oaths I swore as a Grey Warden to do such a thing."

"Then what is your plan?"

"You will," said Marcus, "surrender yourself to me. And I will make sure that the Archdemon is never born."

The Warden pointed a finger at him. "I am not going to let you _kill _me, Marcus, just because you have a _theory._"

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux raised a dark eyebrow. "Oh, I had nothing in mind as drastic as that, though killing you is certainly a very viable option to ensure the safety of Thedas. But I had planned something smaller, less…detrimental to your health. After all, you do not need your womb to live."

"Maker's breath, that's revolting." The Warden's color paled and her blood ran cold. "I will not give up the very thing that makes me a woman. Take my word that I will not conceive any children and be done with it."

"I cannot take your word, Aurora, for you have not gained my trust. There is…something about the taint in you that is _wrong. _ It is…powerful. Unnaturally so. I believe it is the Archdemon waiting to manifest itself."

The Warden cursed Avernus and his vile concoction. She had drunk it out of necessity, needing every edge she could against Loghain and his supporters, but she had never so acutely regretted the action as she did now. "It is _not _the Archdemon."

"As you say," Marcus did not look convinced. "Now," he pulled open a desk drawer and plucked out a small vial of amber liquid, "I respect your prowess, and all that you have done for Thedas in the name of the Grey Wardens. However, I am going to have to ask you to step down as Warden Commander of Ferelden and surrender yourself into my custody. I will administer Ferelden in your absence."

"Loghain," the Warden eyed the amber liquid with some trepidation, "will step up as Warden Commander in my absence. He will be in charge, should anything happen to me."

"A troublesome man, your Loghain," Marcus replied. "Meddlesome. He would break all our hard work in Ferelden, and that I will not abide."

The Warden's eyes shot to the door. Perhaps Marcus had not locked her in to keep her from escaping, but had rather locked her in to keep her from Loghain… "What have you done to Loghain?"

"I?" Marcus shook his head. "I have done nothing. What the Crows are doing, that may be a different story."

She scrubbed her face with her hands. This was not a good situation. This was a terrible situation. She had tried to save herself some shame, and she had only isolated herself from Loghain. But he had Dane, and she hoped to the Maker that they were all right.

"So," Marcus wiggled the vial at her, "do we do this the hard way, or the easy way?"

The Warden took a deep breath. "What is the hard way?"

"I force this," he referred to the liquid, "down your throat."

"And the easy way?"

"You drink it willingly."

The Warden's response was to step towards the door and pull with all her weight on the locked handle. She intended to break it from the door, to force the locking mechanisms away from the heavy oak. She gripped it firmly in her hands and allowed gravity to take her. The wood creaked and groaned around the bronze handle, which gave the Warden a small measure of hope. She had the opportunity for one more tug before she heard Marcus chuckle.

"The hard way, I see."

Knowing she had no more time to break the lock, she resorted to the next best alternative: have Loghain break the lock. Her hands battered on the door as Marcus slowly stepped around his desk, his polished armor glittering in the faint light. The amber liquid shone like gold in its container. "Loghain!" she screamed, the pure volume of her voice filling the space of the room and shaking the mirrors and paintings from the walls. They clattered to the floor in a symphony of broken glass and splintering wood. "Loghain! Loghain! Help! Dane!" She threw her shoulder into the locked door, trying to budge it open and create a solid sound on the wood outside for emphasis. "Help me! Please! LOGHAIN! DANE! LOGHAIN!"

"He can't hear you," said Marcus, almost directly behind her by the sound of his voice. "No one can hear you."

In a flurry of limbs, the Warden swung her elbow backwards. She clipped Marcus on the chin, and his head jutted back sharply at the impact. She watched him stagger backwards as she spun on the balls of her toes, and barely had enough time to duck and recover as he suddenly lurched forward in an attempt to capture her with his massive, armor clad arms.

The Warden pushed at his midsection and used him for leverage, throwing herself into the nearest bookcase. She pulled and heaved against it, unsettling its weight so that it fell atop Marcus as he charged her and pelted his face with books and glass ornaments. The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux hissed and batted at his face, his shoulders bearing the weight of wood and books. Bindings ripped and bent below his boots as he worked to shove the cumbersome bookcase off his neck and shoulders. The shelves were catching on his pauldrons and pulling on his armor, choking him as he worked.

Meanwhile, the Warden launched herself at the door again. She heaved her weight against the lock. She would break the damn thing and find her freedom. She grunted as she twisted and pushed, hoping that the locks in Orlais were not so different from the locks used in Highever. "LOGHAIN! DANE!" She shouted as she forced her weight against the handle, "HELP ME!"

The crash of the bookshelf drew her attention back to Marcus, and she was once more on the run, hands searching for tools to slow him down. He looked incensed, gone was the smirk at the thrill of the hunt. He growled as he ran a gauntlet through his hair. The Warden's hands closed around the standard of Orlais. She drew it from its gilded home, and held it before her. The swan and sun flag sagged heavily in the air in front of her as an ineffective shield against the older Grey Warden's wrath.

"Maker help me," Marcus's eyes narrowed, "it would be easier just to _kill _you."

"You could try," the Warden hissed back, "but you would fail." She lunged at him, forcing him to step backwards. The sun and swan dangled helplessly and Marcus angrily grabbed at the fabric and ripped it from the pole. The Warden heaved the stick up, catching Marcus once more in the jaw. The edge of the pole carried its blow up across his face, scratching its wood across his chin and nose, drawing blood.

Marcus gripped at the wood, and forced it over his face to rest on his shoulder. He tugged on it, taking a step towards his desk, and the wooden pole was wrenched from the Warden's hands by the sudden change in angle and distance. "You stupid girl," Marcus tossed the stick to the ground. "Can't you see I don't _want _to kill you?" He wiped at his face with the back of a gauntlet.

"Your other option sounds no better!" The Warden darted to a bookcase, and began assaulting Marcus with the objects she found there. Books flew at him, as did more of his glass ornaments. Some broke on his armor, while others shattered against his face, and Marcus howled as glass scratched at his cheeks and forehead. The fragments lodged themselves in his skin, and he bellowed at her in a bloody rage.

Despite the objects she threw at him to obscure his vision, Marcus charged. The echo of his feet from carpet to wood to carpet was like the drumming of the Warden's dirge, and it was all she could do to step aside and let him fall against the wall. But Marcus did not hit the wall and collapse. He moved as one accustomed to rage, and used the wall to his advantage. He clattered against it, using the momentum of his ricochet to turn and move towards her.

The Warden could only manage a squeak as a gauntlet closed around the back of her neck to stop her escape. A second gauntlet clapped against her mouth, and she felt Marcus's stubble against her ear.

"You cannot escape, so submit."

With little else to do, the Warden jammed her thumb into Marcus's eyes. The older Grey Warden howled, but did not release her. Instead, he flung her forward across the room, away from the door. The Warden skidded stomach first over Marcus's desk, crashing head over heels to the floor behind it. In the wake of her passing, she also took Marcus's wicked polearm, though it had been a purely fortuitous stroke of luck that her hands had grasped on to it to slow her slide. Her head cracked against the floor, and the Warden saw tiny stars dancing about her vision. Even in her bad eye, she was blinded. All the shapes in the orb were mixed, distorted, and nothing more than a blur.

Marcus's heavy footsteps sounded opposite the desk, along with the crashing of heavy weight against the oaken door. Oh, but how the sound lifted the Warden's spirits, and it was with trembling hands and watery eyes that she stood, Marcus's weapon in hand.

The Warden had never wielded a weapon like it before, but she could guess the basic mechanics of the thing: swing the blade at the enemy, and stab the pointy end in the enemy's body. She firmly planted both her feet on the floor and grasped the polearm in both hands. She placed one hand near the middle of the staff's base, and then another closer to the staff's butt. She mimicked the way her father's infantry held their weapons, and tried to recall how they fought.

"Are you going to use my own weapon against me?" Marcus taunted, goading her by shaking his little amber vial between his fingertips. He did not seem worried by the pounding and grunting on the other side of the door. "Come, see if you can swing it, let alone hit me, little shield bearer."

The Warden stepped around the side of the desk, tip of the polearm's blade pointed at Marcus. "I can swing your weapon without trouble."

He tapped his breastplate. "Then slash at me."

The Warden did no such thing, carefully choosing her steps so that she could entrap Marcus against the ruins of the fallen bookcase. "In good time," she replied, suddenly lunging forward. Marcus took several steps back in response. She lunged again, watching him smirk as he danced out of the point's reach. The polearm pulled strangely at her muscles, making them work in ways that they were not used to, but she silenced their cries of protest as she lined up her stroke…

The sound of cracking and splintering wood echoed in the room, and Marcus turned towards the source of the noise in surprise. The Warden capitalized on the opportunity and drove the polearm into Marcus's neck. Her hands were shaking so hard in relief at Loghain's sudden bellowing that she missed her mark, and managed only to carve a deep groove into Marcus's neck.

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his wicked wound. His gauntlets came up to staunch the flow of bleeding, and he stuffed what he could of his cloak into the wound, but his blood ran thick and red through his fingers. It pooled around his head in a sticky mess, and he flopped limply on the ground as it drained out of him. Dane padded to his side and growled at him, sharp teeth bared, daring him to move.

"Maker's breath, you're all right," Loghain rushed to the Warden's side, patting his hands down her arms. He eyed the ugly looking bruise that was appearing on her forehead and the thin stream of blood trickling from it. "When I heard you screaming, I feared the worst."

"I feared the worst for you too," the Warden steadied herself on her new weapon. "He locked the door to keep us separated."

"We cannot linger and discuss this," Loghain said, ushering the Warden out of Marcus's study with strong hands, "there are Antivan Crows in the palace."

"How many attacked you?"

"Six. Dane took three, and I took three."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No, not a scratch."

"Dane?"

"No."

Dane barked. Not hurt.

"We'll go through the servant's exit." The Warden advised, pointing Loghain down the corridor and away from the throne room.

"That won't work," he replied, halting their movement.

"Why won't it?"

"The Antivans said something about Marcus closing the gates and how it was futile to fight. You know how dramatic foreigners are."

The Warden bit her lip in thought. "Then we have to go through the front gate."

"That is as good as suicide, especially since it's probably _shut._"

"The front gate can only be shut by a command from the Empress. If she hasn't closed it, then the gate is open to us. However, I suspect it will be heavily guarded," the Warden sighed as Loghain looked at her in disbelief, "I've been with the Empress for several months, I know what power she commands and where it applies, Loghain."

"Then I suppose we have no choice." Loghain slipped his shield from over his shoulder and drew his sword from its scabbard. "Stay behind me. The Crows have archers, and you aren't exactly wearing enough protection to withstand a knife slice, let alone an arrow."

"I'm beginning to regret not wearing my armor now; I don't need you to rub it in."

"Trust me," Loghain chuckled and held his shield out wide, trying to provide enough protection for both the Warden and himself, "I plan to gloat, and say, 'I told you so,' once we're out of here. I am a patient man, I can wait."

The Warden echoed his chuckle, grasping her polearm tightly in her hands. She ducked behind Loghain as they moved into the unprotected expanse of the throne room. There was no whizzing of arrows, no hiss of air near her face, but the Warden did not allow her guard to drop. Dane trotted by Loghain's side, his powerful sense of small not detecting the scent of Antivan Crows nearby. From the beautifully decorated throne room, the trio made their way into the receiving hall. This room was also empty…there was not even a guard to be seen.

It did not speak well for the safety of the Empress if there were no guards in the palace. No servants, either. The men and women who normally prowled the gardens looking for weeds and flowers for the Empress's bed chambers were absent. They were replaced by a dreadful silence that not even in the wind in the trees could fill.

As the Warden had predicted, the main gate out of the palace lay open…but unguarded.

Dane suddenly growled, baring his teeth, and then there was the screech of projectiles flying through the air. The Warden threw herself behind Loghain, following his footsteps as he pushed into the stream of arrows to find their dead zone. Dane was crouched behind her legs, using her as she was using Loghain.

A shout rose up from one of the hedge mazes, and then Antivan Crows were bursting through the shrubs with their swords and daggers flashing.

"Twelve!" Loghain called, bringing his shield up to block one blow while he sidestepped and slashed with his sword to parry another.

The Warden only grunted in acknowledgement, swinging at two charging Crows with Marcus's polearm. The Crows hopped backwards, surprised at the reach of the weapon.

In the ensuing chaos, Loghain and the Warden practiced a familiar tactic. They fought back to back, giving Dane enough space between them to dance around their legs to snap at vulnerable limbs and growl at enemies. He caught an assassin's leg just as it was about to creep up and stab the Warden in the back of the neck. His cry of surprise alerted her to his presence, and Dane's intervention had bought her enough time to ram the butt of her weapon into the assassin's throat and crush his windpipe. The assassin fell to the ground gurgling and wheezing, having lost his weapon in favor of clutching at his throat.

Loghain kicked the assassin's weapon away, not risking the chance that he could somehow revive himself and make short work of the Wardens in their distraction.

In small, measured steps, the trio pushed their way closer to the open gate. They spun as they fought; slowly rotating positions so that Loghain took point, then guarded the rear, and then came to take point again. They dragged their enemies with them, forcing them to move and separate from their companions to keep up with the Wardens.

This was the sort of fighting where Loghain excelled. In close-quarters, team-oriented combat, Loghain had no equal. With his shield and sword and with someone he trusted at his back, he was an unstoppable force of cold, calculating fury. He forced enemies into positions where they would have to choose between being sliced down by the Warden's polearm or duck and have their faces chewed off by the ravenous war dog. And when there were no opportunities to let his enemies choose their deaths, he did it for them. His sword swung straight and true, slashing through thin leather armor and vulnerable flesh to reveal hot blood and soft, white tissue.

The Warden did her best to keep up with Loghain's relentless pace. She sensed the way that Loghain shepherded assassins into her blade, feeling his intentions acutely from experience and from the taint they shared. But the assassins were all attacking at once now, she was having a hard time facilitating his kills and tending to her own. If she did not take the killing blows Loghain offered, the assassins would regroup and attack Loghain from an angle he was not well prepared to cover, since it fell behind the elbow of his sword arm and into the range of the Warden's sweeping polearm.

So when it was that the Warden elected to strike at the assassin near her right, fearing that his twin swords would tear her apart if she didn't do so, she left Loghain vulnerable to attack. As Loghain twisted, trying to raise his shield to cover an incoming flurry of blows from an elf with skin the color of moonlight, he left his right side vulnerable.

The Warden saw the movement of the assassin in Loghain's blind spot through Irving's enchanted orb. As it spun in her head, she saw the masked Antivan make a move to strike. The assassin was lunging forward, aiming for the weak spot between Loghain's arm and his breastplate.

She was already mid-attack on her target; the polearm's curved edge having sliced through her assassin's neck. Instead of cutting the blow short, she let the polearm guide her movements. It slipped through bone and sinew with ease and separated the assassin's head from its neck. But she did not end the move there. She stepped with the polearm, carrying the strike to completion by turning on her heels and arching the polearm upwards. With Dane darting forward to fill the gap she had left in their defense, she forced her polearm under the blade of Loghain's would be attacker. The assassin's stroke went high, the blade squealing against the polearm's shaft rather than Loghain's vulnerable flesh.

With a flick of their wrist and a change of targets, the assassin was suddenly bringing its blade down to bear against the Warden.

In a moment of horrifying clarity, the Warden realized that she had stepped too far into her swing, and so did not have the speed or distance to draw herself away from the assassin's cut. . She would not have worried about such a mistake if she had been fully armored, but of course, she _would _be the one to grow arrogant in a dangerous, foreign land.

The assassin capitalized on her inexperience and took advantage of her exposed right side. From wood to skin, the assassin's blade sliced across the Warden's upper arm and then down across her side. As a parting blow, the assassin dug its blade into the Warden's side, just below the Warden's armpit. At first, the Warden felt nothing but the blood seeping from her shoulder and side, but then the burning struck her. It felt like someone was holding her in front of an open flame, for the wound _burned. _

With a roar of pain, the Warden pulled the polearm over her head and brought it down into the assassin's face. The assassin attempted to step away, but found its paths hindered by the sudden presence of Dane beside its legs. The Warden cleaved the Antivan's head in two.

Loghain had managed to drop three of the twelve assassins by his own hand, and had killed four indirectly by forcing them into Dane's jaws and the Warden's blade. The Warden had killed three assassins on her own, and Dane had ended the lives of the remaining two. All the assassins were dead.

Loghain squinted against the sun as he looked up to the walls surrounding the palace, searching for more assassins.

"The way is clear," the Warden said, taking a deep breath. She clutched her wounded arm to her side tightly. "We should get going."

With his eye still trained to the walls, Loghain set off towards their exit with long strides. Dane hurried after him, and last came the Warden. The burning in her arm and side was spreading rapidly down her leg and up her neck as fire might spread through parchment. Her feet felt heavy and her head thick, but she gritted her teeth and focused on the back of Loghain's head.

There was shouting coming from before and behind them. The Warden turned to look over her shoulder, and saw a mass of black-cloaked and armored figures heading their way. Loghain saw the same scene in front of them. His eyes darted around for a side street, and he found what he was looking for in an avenue that ran adjacent to the palace walls. He slung his shield over his shoulder and reached behind to tuck the Warden tight against him as he slipped down the side street. Dane followed at their heels, turning his large head over his shoulder to keep tabs on potential followers.

Loghain's pace was relentless, and he was now bordering on a full-fledged run. His armor rustled as the various pieces knocked against one another. He was a fit man to be able to keep moving at such a quick rate and in cumbersome armor. The Warden, unarmored and injured, was having trouble matching his strides and felt herself lagging behind him. Each time her steps faltered, she felt Loghain tug roughly at her and pull her along again. The burning was all over now and burned where Loghain's cool gauntlet met her flesh.

"Stop dallying," Loghain growled, tightening his grip around her arm. "We've got to get a move on."

"I know," the Warden grimaced, "I'm sorry." She willed her feet to move faster, sustaining Loghain's pace for as long as she could.

Buildings passed around them, and soon they were no longer sheltered by the wall. They were running through streets, dodging Orlesians peasants, and scaring livestock and pigeons with their flailing arms and labored breathing. All the while, the sound of pursuit came from behind them. The distant shouts of men on the hunt drove them forward, their braying nipping at the Wardens' heels like angry dogs. They passed through several opened gates, though none of them led to the Grey Warden compound. Loghain was running them tangent to where they needed to go, which the Warden tried to explain to him, but found that her tongue was too dry to form the words.

"Wrong," was all she could croak out. "Go right."

This was when Loghain stopped to look at her. He _really _looked at her, eyes wandering over her wounded but defiant finger. His gauntlet was slippery with the blood that had run down the Warden's arm, and already he could see that her shirt was soaked. The cornflower blue fabric of her corset was ruined; it was stained purple by the small fountain of blood that had sprung from just below her arm… "Maker's breath," he looked horrified, "why didn't you say something?"

The Warden could only shrug. "Keep going," she rasped, tongue thick in her mouth. She offered him her uninjured arm, which he looped around his neck. He then stooped and slipped his free arm behind her knees. She protested at this, beating weakly against his stooped back, but relented once he had her firmly settled in his arms. Marcus's polearm lay forgotten on the ground behind them, abandoned in the Warden's pursuit to cling to Loghain's strong neck.

His knees and back protested angrily to the weight of Loghain's armor and the weight of the fellow Warden, but it was nowhere near as bad as it had been when he'd carried the Warden (armor and all) away from Cullen the crazed templar. He had the fear of discovery fueling him, and he let his anxiety and unbending resolve take control of his senses. The shouts of their pursuers were still behind them and were drawing ever closer with each footstep, and it was this notion that provided the impetus for Loghain to press onward.

While he was unable to run with the Warden trapped protectively against his breastplate, he could at least make good time with a persistent stagger. He darted forward several feet, going as fast as he dared, before slowing to a more even pace to recover his strength. He allowed himself extra speed as he crossed streets, trying his best to avoid uneven cobblestones, and then slowed in the shadows of buildings. The sounds of their pursuers never faltered, and no matter how fast Loghain walked or how many streets he crossed, it always seemed that their voices were growing louder.

In his arms, the Warden's breath came in uneven wheezes. Terse, breathless questions had revealed to Loghain that she was poisoned, though he knew he had not needed to waste the air on asking her. Her eyes were weeping strange, discolored tears, and her nose had begun to bleed, and it frightened Loghain. He guessed they had only four more blocks straight and then fifteen blocks to the right until they were at one of the open gates to the Grey Warden compound. He was not sure, however, if she would last that long. "Be strong, Aurora," he whispered, pushing ahead.

"Trying," she whispered back, her hands flexing around his neck in a gesture of comfort.

The gesture brought a smile to Loghain's face, and he quickened his step. The voices were loud and clear behind him, and Dane had begun to whine, but he felt hopeful. They would see this through, just as they had seen the end of the Blight. And even if the rest of the Grey Wardens were as guilty as Marcus in this assassination plot, they would at least die together and it would not have been in vain.

The hope died from Loghain's face as he felt the slice of an arrow in the space between his poleyn and his greave. He dropped the Warden to the ground in shock, and she fell as an angry, grumbling bundle to the cobblestones in front of him. He swore violently and extended his leg, his fingers feeling around the arrow's shaft to discern how much damage it had done to his knee. The head of the arrow was embedded firmly in the flesh just below the back of his knee. It had been an _expert _shot. He looked over his shoulder, and saw that the group that had been following them had gained ground, and was now close enough to shoot. He counted seven men. One was an archer, slight and hooded: an elf. The others wore no hoods or masks.

"Loghain," the Warden struggled to a sitting position. "You have to go," she croaked, her voice hoarse. She could see the group of assassins nearing. "Leave me."

"I am not," he said gruffly, "leaving you behind."

The Warden's hand reached out and touched the fletching of the arrow. She tugged on it, and watched as the older Grey Warden groaned in pain. "Can't carry me like that."

"I will _try._"

"You won't," she withdrew her hand and clutched it to her side as a shudder of pain went through her body, "I won't let you," she growled through clenched teeth. "Go!"

"Girl, do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do!" He hissed, fingers probing at his wound as he struggled to figure out the best course of action. He winced when he felt an arrow thump into his shield. That was a warning shot. The assassins were _playing _with them. They _enjoyed _the chase.

"You are," the Warden said quietly, "Warden Commander of Ferelden now, Loghain." She touched her hand to his cheek, smearing it with her blood. "Go. Run. Get to Serge. Tell him what happened. Take Dane."

"No," he shook his head, "I will not do it. I will not leave you behind."

"If you don't go, Ferelden will be run by Orlesians." She spoke through gritted teeth. "Marcus told me so." Her chest heaved, "Save my Ferelden. Save our Wardens. From the Orlesians."

"Damn it," Loghain cursed, "and damn you!" He stood and stared down at the Warden who was staring right back up at him. The insufferable wretch of a girl sitting below him knew the words he needed to hear. "I am coming back for you. I swear to the Maker, I am coming back."

"I know you will," she smiled at his silhouette. "Go. Go! Go!"

Loghain nodded firmly and whistled at Dane, who followed Loghain with little protest. The Mabari had adopted Loghain as his new owner. Man and dog limped away down the passageway, not daring to look back at the dying Grey Warden and the mob that was encroaching rapidly on her.

The Warden pushed against the stone with her boots, inching herself over to the wall of the closest building as the assassin archer trailed an arrow on her position. She reached with her good arm for the low hanging window ledge, hauled herself to her feet, and did not flinch when the projectile landed squarely between her outstretched fingers. She could hear the taunting of her pursuers, but she would not die easily or quietly. She pushed herself along the wall, leaning her shoulder against it for support. She rounded one corner, and then fell into the sight of the busy street.

People screamed and shoved at her as she approached, and the Warden wiped away the blood dripping from her nose with a dirty, blood stained sleeve. She could hear the thunder of the assassins' footsteps behind her, but she would not yield to it. She continued forward, one foot after another. She slipped between buildings and into alleys, then out again into the street, trying to buy Loghain enough time to escape. If the assassins wished to have sport, she would _give _them sport. Provided that they followed her. That they left Loghain and Dane alone.

Her world became a blur of sunlight and shade as she weaved through the city. Arrows hissed close to her, deliberately missing her, guiding her, as she darted around corners. She rested her sweaty back against the cool walls of the shops and hovels she passed, taking what moments of respite she could before she reengaged the Antivans in their hunt. She painted the city with her blood, splattering cobblestones and cinderblocks red in her wake.

She knew she was running out of time. As surely as she felt her heart begin to slow, the Warden became acutely aware of the way the breeze touched her cheeks and carried droplets of sweat away on the wind. It was the surreal feeling of dying, and she dug her fingers into the painful stab under her arm. There was no pain; only the sensation of slippery flesh that she could pinch easily between her fingers.

From around the corner of the building she was resting against, she could hear the assassins speaking softly to one another and the scuffle of their soft boots on the stone. The Warden did not understand a word of Antivan, but she did not have to. She already knew of what they spoke.

She smeared her bloody fingers over a cheek. It was time for the chase to end.

* * *

_Long chapter is long. VERY, VERY LONG. Hopefully not too long to make reading it uncomfortable. __I toyed with the idea of breaking it up into two parts, but I celebrated my birthday this weekend and thus will share my joy with you in this extra long chapter. __Oh, and on the subject of birthdays, my beautiful beta drew an amazing(ly sexy) picture of Vidar. You can find Lady Winde's artwork in my profile! Vidar is...yum. Yes. I highly urge you to go take a look. His bear maulin' scars will not be denied!_

_Many thanks to those of you who are reading and reviewing! My jaw always drops at the quality and insight in the reviews. I'd tell you to take your mindflayer hats off, but I think they look rather snazzy!_


	34. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26 **

It was with a mouth full of wretched bile that Loghain at last staggered through the gates to the Grey Warden compound. Dane trailed mournfully behind him, whimpering at Loghain to keep going, to press forward, ever forward.

Each step away from the Warden felt like a betrayal to Loghain, and he rued the notion that he was becoming weak and soft in his old age. Stupidly, he had made a vow to the Warden that he knew he could not keep, and he had done it out of foolish sentimentality. Worst of all, he had made it more for his own comfort than hers. "I am coming back for you," he had said. "I swear it." Loghain Mac Tir did not like to give his word when he could not keep it, and in this situation, he could not. To keep this promise meant to break another, and some promises were too important to break.

Long ago, he had promised Maric that he would never let anyone stand in the way of Ferelden's protection. He had left Maric's son, Cailan, at Ostagar because of such a promise. No king or Grey Warden could come before Ferelden. There was no one alive or dead that was more important than the country he loved dearly. No amount of glory or suffering could change his mind, and though he had been sorely tempted to stay with that wretched, miserable slip of a girl, he could not forsake his duty to Ferelden. He was Warden Commander of Ferelden, the _last _of Ferelden's fledgling Grey Warden branch. If Marcus meant to harm Ferelden by establishing an Orlesian foothold at Amaranthine, and use the Grey Wardens as a means to infiltrate Fereldan soil and usurp power, Loghain was going to do his damndest to stop whatever efforts the man had planned. Even if it meant leaving _her_ behind. Even if it meant _lying _to her.

The closer he moved into the compound, the more he felt the burden of command settling on his shoulders. It felt like wearing a thick, fur cloak in the middle of the summer. Command was ever a cumbersome and unwieldy thing, and few men could wear it with grace, even after a lifetime of leading. Maric's knees had buckled under the weight of it, but with Rowan and Loghain's support, he had become stronger. Even the Warden, with her tenacity, charisma, and impossible deeds, had not fully mastered bearing the burden.

But both Maric and Aurora were dead, and in the wake of their passing they had thrust command into his hands. Loghain considered himself no more a natural leader than they did; he was merely a man who could make hard decisions and live with their consequences. He assumed leadership because it was a necessary evil, not because he hungered for it. He would shoulder its weight if it meant saving lives on a battlefield. He would not take it to gain esteem.

Loghain had never wanted to be Warden Commander of Ferelden. He loathed the idea. When the Warden had initially tried to pawn the title off on him, saying that he would be better suited for rallying an army than killing the Archdemon, he'd found the idea ludicrous. Yet, she had gotten her way in the end. Loghain had become the leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden and all it had taken was a few drops of poison, no Archdemon required.

There was shouting in the courtyard ahead, and Loghain could see Serge standing amidst the training dummies. He was shouting orders at scurrying men and women, commanding them to move with as much haste as they could and gather their comrades. The mage had his arms extended in either direction, magical energy crackling at his fingertips. What he was doing with his magic, Loghain could not guess, but he slipped his shield down his arm and drew his sword, ready for Serge to turn on him at any moment.

"Serge," Loghain called as he approached, his voice gruff. People scuttled away from as he moved to the courtyard, giving him confused and horrified looks. Loghain probably _did _look a sight. "Serge."

The light from Serge's hands dimmed and he slowly turned to face Loghain. He frowned when he saw the way Loghain limped towards him, weapons drawn. "Warden Loghain," Serge addressed him, "What has happened to you?"

Loghain heard the tremor of mortification in Serge's tone, the slight quake of the man's brow as he took in Loghain's appearance. Though he didn't trust the blood mage, it was fairly evident that the man meant him no harm. Loghain sheathed his sword and shrugged his shield over his shoulder. "Is it not obvious?" Loghain motioned to his stained armor and injured leg. "We were attacked."

"Where is the peach?" Serge asked, but he knew from Loghain's grim expression what the answer was. Loghain's armor was splattered with blood and it was smeared over his cheek in the shape of a lover's final touch. "She is not with you…"

Loghain shook his head, sending a battle-whipped braid over his shoulder. "Dead at the hands of the Antivan Crows. She bid me go. Made me," he snarled in disgust, "Warden Commander of Ferelden now. Here I am, a hollow tin soldier waiting for your _commands._"

Serge crossed the small distance between them and placed a slender hand on Loghain's pauldron. He ignored the way the older man glared at him. "I am so sorry, Brother." He could see the raging storm of roiling, boiling blood in Loghain's veins. He admired the man's self-restraint; his composure in the face of his loss, for it had been evident what the pretty, young girl had meant to him. Serge had watched them over their months, and his keen eyes had not missed the hurt and angry stares they had sent to one another when they thought no one else was looking. Yet, he had also seen the sadness in their features and tasted it palpably in the air. "You may not believe me now, but it was not in vain. It is never in vain."

"Do not tell me she did not die in vain!" Loghain roughly brushed the blood mage's hand aside, and Serge recoiled at the ferocity of his words. "A good woman died today because of _your _Order's vanities!"

"No," a cold voice said from behind Loghain, "a good woman died because of _one man's _vanities."

Loghain turned angry blue eyes to the slender form of Andraste Caron and her swaying, leather clad hips. "And the exalted _Second _comes to the rescue. How fortuitous that you arrive, madam, as soon as your competition for control of Ferelden perishes. Tell me; are you disappointed that _one _of us survived the treachery?"

Andraste's face looked old, much older than Loghain remembered. She was still an attractive woman, even if her face was pinched in weariness and pain. Her dirty green eyes were tired, and he could see bags under her eyes that rivaled his own. "I am disappointed that it came to this, Loghain Mac Tir, and you have my sincerest apologies about what has happened. I only regret that I came too late to put an end to this before matters escalated. But what is done is done, and you are Warden Commander of Ferelden now. It is clear to me that you are not complicit in Marcus's treachery, and since his designs involve Ferelden, I am requesting your assistance."

"Then tell me quick what you need of me, madam, for I've need to get on my charger and find my commander's body before the Antivans defile it."

Caron shook her head. "That will not be possible. I have given the command to enter siege mode. No Grey Warden is to leave the compound, not until I have assessed the situation and given them orders. Or have you forgotten?" A leather glove gestured to the arrow that was sticking out of his leg, "There are assassins out there waiting to murder us. I will not see any more Grey Wardens die today."

"How," the word came out more of a curse from Loghain's mouth, "_magnanimous _of you."

"We do what we must, Brother." Andraste's hand was firm on his shoulder. "I would save as many as I can from Marcus's treachery. I am again sorry about what happened to Warden Commander Cousland, but her death is proof enough that we must regroup and protect what is left. If Marcus does not kill us, then the Chevaliers will, and I would not see us come to death at either set of blades."

"Marcus is dead. Aurora slew him." Loghain was just beginning to feel the ache of the arrow, the adrenaline from the chase having ebbed away from his tired body. Dane seemed to sense this, for he rested a large paw on Loghain's foot and whined.

The raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I have seen that man walk away from death more times than I can count. He has been eviscerated by darkspawn, stabbed by bandits, and undergone torture at the hands of his political enemies. Marcus has the curious gift of fortune, and so I will not believe he is truly dead until I have severed his head from his shoulders myself. Nevertheless, for the sake of the Grey Wardens in Orlais, I hope that what you say is true. Still, this does not change my decision. You will remain."

A swift-footed elf sprinted up to Andraste just then, holding a large stack of papers. Loghain could see that each paper contained rows of names. Some of the names were scratched off in a thin, neat line. Andraste was flipping through the papers, her eyes rapidly scanning the names. She murmured out comments of, "I thought as much," and, "Of course, she would," and, "that is no surprise," when she found names of interest. "And the mail too, such a bastard…"

"Is that," Loghain said, utterly weary from exertion and grief, "a roster?"

"It is," she replied absently, still flipping through the pages. "Are all the Wardens left accounted for?" she asked the elf.

The elf shook his head. "No. There is still one absent."

"Well," Andraste sighed and folded the papers under her arm, "I think I can guess who that might be. The little prince is probably half-way on his way to Weisshaupt now."

"Andraste," said Serge, disturbing the redhead's thoughts, "I am going to take the Warden Commander to my office and tend to his wounds." Loghain looked to be strung as tightly as a bow, and would probably snap if something was not done about it.

She smiled at him, running a pink tongue over her lips, "You are dismissed, Serge. I will manage without you for an hour or so. But I want you back at my side once we rally."

Serge nodded and then placed an arm behind Loghain's shoulders, leading him away to the command center. "You can lean on me, Brother," he said with some mirth, "I'll not break at your weight."

Loghain said nothing, barely tolerating the man's touch. He limped stubbornly up the stairs of the command center, resisting Serge's efforts to touch and prod him. Dane helped him in the matter by squeezing his way between their legs, forcing the two Wardens to stand apart.

Loghain found the Grey Warden's war room to be efficiently simple, but he could not help himself from sneezing as they passed into the dark hallway where the offices were. He pinched his nose with his gauntlet and his eyes watered.

"We should really hire maids, yes?" Serge chuckled and produced a small key from a fold in his apple-colored robe. He slipped it into its keyhole and turned, and the door to his office swung open. He moved ahead of Loghain and turned his guest chair around so that it faced the door. He then ushered Loghain in, and did not flinch when the large, heavily armored man knocked glowstones and books to the floor.

Loghain settled on the edge of the chair with a grunt and rested his forehead in a hand while Serge knelt on the ground before him to examine the wound in greater detail. He was stretched out across the small space, his greaves nearly touching the closed door. Dane snuck behind Serge and nestled himself between the desk and the wall. He watched Serge curiously as he worked.

"If you have questions," Serge looked up from his place at Loghain's feet, "I would ask them of me now. You may not get any other opportunities for answers. I am feeling generous and we have moved past the point where secrecy was required."

"Secrecy? What secrecy?"

"That is a rather bad first question, don't you think?"

"Explain everything." Loghain's tone held no room for debate. "I want to know why Marcus assassinated my commander and tried to murder me. I want to know why your _own _commander arrived so conveniently. I want to know why you saw fit to imprison us for two months."

"The Grey Wardens," the blood mage reached into his robe and plucked out a small knife, "are not a united front." He placed it on the floor beside his knees before his fingers began to work on removing what armor he could from around Loghain's injured leg. "There are some who disagree with the ways Weisshaupt in which works. Marcus is one such man. He does not believe that our stronghold should be so far removed from the rest of Thedas."

"Let me guess," Loghain winced as Serge jostled the arrow with his wrist, "he wants to move it to Orlais."

"Precisely. Orlais is the center of the world, no?" Serge chuckled when he heard the audible squeak of Loghain's gauntlet making a fist, "Ahhh, you do not agree, but that is how he sees it, and you said you wanted to know…" Serge examined the arrow curiously. "Turn, please?"

Loghain shifted in his chair, resting on his hip while Serge curiously poked and prodded with his fingertips. "Get on with it." Loghain felt something sharp slit his pant leg in two.

"I am going to make an incision to cut the arrow out, and then I intend to heal it with magic," Serge explained. "You may feel some discomfort."

Loghain clenched his jaw. "Just do it."

Serge nodded and put the blade to the flesh, chatting to Loghain as he made his precise, careful cuts.

"Did you tell my commander any of this?"

"I tried to," Serge's blade parted Loghain's skin with ease, "in my own fashion. At the time, Marcus had not yet made his move. It was thought that ignorance would protect her."

"You were using her." Loghain shifted slightly, and sent Serge's blade cutting deeper than it had to into his leg. He spat out a curse, both at the sudden pain and at what was apparently a very complex plot. "You were using her to bait Marcus into making a move."

"Yes." Serge's brow was furrowed as he worked to stem the flow of Loghain's blood, manipulating it with his magic, holding it at bay. "Though we did not want him to move so soon. We merely wanted him to reveal his plans by accelerating them."

"And why are you telling me this? As soon as you've fixed my leg, I've half a mind to stomp your head in, mage."

"Because, Loghain," Serge pointed the tip of his bloody dagger at the other Grey Warden, "you have a right to know."

Loghain felt like bringing his fist down atop the mage's head and battering it into the floorboards. "_She _had a right to know!"

"If she knew, she would have given up the game. Marcus is a clever man, he would have figured out what we were trying to do. Like a rat, he would have gone underground. He would have changed his plans, and it already took us _years _to figure out what he intended. Which was, even I will admit," Serge returned to his extraction, "bold." Serge gently tugged on the arrow, trying to pull it free, but found that it remained lodged and so make another set of incisions, this time deeper.

"Marcus wants to be the First," he continued. "He intends to create legitimate power for himself in Orlais and thus decentralize the power of the Grey Wardens in the Anderfels. It is no secret that the First is involved with the very virtuous, yet _very _married Queen Ivonne. It should come as no surprise that Marcus seeks a union with Empress Celene. Where the First has failed to become an anointed king, Marcus plans to succeed. He will establish a legitimate dynasty, not just bastards. Of course," Serge said in a wry tone, "the First does not like this, and what the First does not like, all Grey Wardens are honor bound to dislike too."

"How," Loghain grunted at the scrape of the knife, "utterly _inane._"

"Of course it is. But that is the rule in principle." Serge tugged on the arrow again, and this time it came free with the hissing and sucking of flesh. "There are some in the Grey Wardens who follow this rule to the letter; they are what you might call traditionalists. They would not dare wipe themselves if the First did not give them permission to do so. Others have a less literal view, taking only the First's stance on important matters. Then there are some, separatists, if you will, who act as their own consciences dictate. Marcus is a separatist."

Cold air seeped into Loghain's wound, and it struck him as curious that the arrows of the Antivans were not coated with the same poisons as their blades. "I'm not poisoned, am I?"

"You? No." Serge held up the bloody arrow to him. "You see, grey fletches. Grey Wardens use them; we generally do not use conventional poison since it works poorly on Darkspawn. I think Antivan Crows use black feathers for their arrows? Crow feathers, maybe. Those would be poisoned."

"I was shot with a Grey Warden _arrow_?" Loghain's lip curled in disgust, "that means that Grey Wardens were chasing us." The poison from an Antivan blade may have slowed the Warden and rendered her too weak to fight, but it was probably a Grey Warden knife that had slit her throat…

"Marcus had popular ideas."

"Those names," Loghain recalled the names on the roster that had been crossed off, "the names crossed off. They were Grey Wardens who defected."

"Yes." Serge placed the arrow on the ground beside Loghain's foot. "I believe Marcus had planned for them to meet at the palace after the third bell. It would explain why the bell's chiming prompted the exodus. He," Serge sighed, "probably had this planned for some time. We were fortunate that Andraste returned home today. Shortly after you left, actually. She was the one who spotted the sudden and, unfortunately, violent departure. You are lucky you arrived when you did, otherwise the gates would have been shut to you."

"What is Andraste?"

"She is a woman," said Serge with some amusement. He patted Loghain's knee. "You should be all healed now. Try and bend it."

"In relation to Marcus," Loghain bent his leg obligingly and then placed it on the floor and leaned his weight onto it. There was no discomfort. He gave a satisfied nod to Serge.

Serge allowed himself a satisfied smile at his work. "If something were to happen to Marcus, she would be the one to take command."

"Second, is she?" Loghain pursed his lips. "Traditionalist."

"She is, indeed," Serge agreed, "the First favors her for her dedication. I suspect she might not be Warden Commander of Val Royeaux for long, however. Before the First takes his Calling, and I suspect that this will be soon, he will need to name his successor. Normally, it would pass to his Second, but there has been some talk that he will appoint Andraste instead. If that is the case, then she will have to make the long, cold journey to the north and leave behind her sunny home in Orlais."

Loghain raised an eyebrow at the sad tone Serge used. "You sound like you do not approve."

"When she goes to Weisshaupt, Val Royeaux will fall to me."

"Because you are next in the chain of command." Loghain nodded in understanding. "Are you a traditionalist like your commander?"

Serge shook his head. "I am what I have to be. Just as you are what you have to be. She will appoint me to my position and I will follow her orders. I will dislike as she does, and do as she commands."

The Warden Commander of Ferelden was suddenly struck with a painfully obvious realization. "You _love _her."

The blood mage said nothing in response, his long fingers instead worked to replace Loghain's discarded armor.

"She is the eight generation Grey Warden you spoke of." Loghain remembered that Serge had spoken in the same tone when he had mentioned Grey Warden families their first day at the compound. Loghain understood now Serge's strange, sympathetic overtones. The blood mage was acutely aware that their situations could have easily been reversed: it could be Serge mourning the loss of his beloved commander, not Loghain. He did not feel his heart warmed by the blood mage's plight, but he thought he understood the man a bit more. He was still a tricky, slippery bastard who made promises as weightless as air, but he had a weakness that could be exploited.

Serge was quick to change their subject. "To answer your question as to why Marcus ordered your deaths, I can only imagine two possible reasons." Serge was standing now, having replaced Loghain's armor, and rested his back against the closed door. His dark and mesmerizing eyes bored holes into Loghain's. "In killing the little peach, he was trying to appeal to the more staunch traditionalists amongst us. Her story was unbelievable, in both its simplicity and its execution. It was clear she was hiding something, and he likely killed her to make an example out of her. I imagine he also did it to show the rest of the Grey Wardens that he has the willpower and the strength to make the 'hard decisions.' That he will protect Thedas at all costs."

"And to think, she called _me _paranoid," Loghain replied coldly. "There is nothing more of her tale that needs to be told."

Serge sighed. "Oh, my friend, would that it could be so simple. Alistair confessed."

Loghain raised an eyebrow at the news. "Did he? What did it take for the _Princeling_ to confess the crime of her survival? Just a pretty smile from Warden Commander Andraste?"

"I would not know, but Andraste is a very persuasive woman." Serge shrugged. "Regardless, whatever you thought was right or appropriate in Ferelden," and he said this sternly to Loghain, as one might reprimand a child, "is not the same in the rest of the Warden inhabited world. Andraste will tell the First what happened, along with the decisions she had to make because of it. But we will be the only ones to know."

"Small mercy indeed," said Loghain darkly, not knowing who this 'we' referred to.

"There is no need to cause unnecessary concern, yes? We will solve the problem in private, and none shall be the wiser. We would not want a future repeat of what happened during the last Blight…which brings me to you." Serge spread his hands out wide in a gesture of apology. "You are not a well liked man, my friend. There are many Grey Wardens who use your name as a curse because of the way you kept us from doing our duty in Ferelden."

"Oh, so killing me would have brought Marcus some sort of esteem amongst our blood thirsty peers?"

"Absolutely. I would also not put it past him to have plans for our fertile neighbor of Ferelden. Besides, you are, and I say this with the greatest respect," Serge flashed him a wicked smile, "a very meddlesome man."

"Pah," Loghain scowled, "I wish she had just killed me and spared us both the trouble. Then we would both be dead and free of these machinations. It is always," he said bitterly, "a sad day when an old man outlives a young woman."

"Considering that in any other scenario, the Fereldan Grey Wardens would probably be commanded by an Orlesian, I would say you have fared quite well. I think you would be spinning in your traitorous grave at any other alternative!" Serge watched Loghain stiffen at his comment. The man's gauntlets creaked and groaned at the pressure they exerted against themselves as Loghain's hands balled into fists. He collected himself a few moments later, though Serge knew the man was not quite as calm as he appeared. "That being said, I will admit, it _is _curious that she kept you alive! Would you answer a question of mine, since I have answered questions of yours?"

"That depends on the question. I have other things I would rather be doing than answering your questions, blood mage."

"Oh," Serge winced and put a hand to his heart, "your tongue is very sharp. But it is about your favorite topic, so maybe you are amenable?" He regarded Loghain sitting his guest chair, noting the man's proud features and the thick, luxurious mane of his hair. He was smeared in his lover's blood and looking every bit the impenetrable, Fereldan fortress. When he saw Loghain's head tilt in acquiescence, he spoke. "Why did she spare you?"

"Because she intended to strike the killing blow." Loghain sighed deeply and felt his bubbling anger dissipate as thoughts of the Warden flooded his mind. She was standing fresh faced and youthful in his tent at Ostagar, shivering in the rain, and then morphing into a bold, confident young woman who shredded Calenhad's colors as easily as a scythe shears the winter wheat. "She had the fool notion that I could, with Riordan's help, rebuild the Grey Wardens. She thought that if Riordan struck the killing blow, the people of Ferelden would see it as nothing more than Orlais meddling in Fereldan affairs. If I struck the killing blow, she feared she would not have the strength or means to establish the Grey Wardens. Called herself a young upstart from Highever, hah."

"She had a point," replied Serge with approval, "nothing inspires men to throw their lives away more than a beautiful woman's death. Just look at our Maker's bride. More men have died with her name on their lips than their wives.'"

"I disagree." Loghain stood, filling the confines of the small office with his broad shoulders and powerful presence. "I have heard men dying and screaming on the battlefield, but I have _never once _heard them call out for anyone else other than their wives and mothers."

"I suppose," Serge smiled, "that you have walked different battlefields than I."

"Prophets do not warm the bodies of dying men."

Serge swept his eyes down Loghain's figure. "And when you finally go, what will warm yours?" He watched Loghain's blood begin to flip and spin below his skin at the remark.

"Are you done wasting my time?" Loghain's eyes narrowed.

The blood mage nodded. "Yes, I suppose I am. Come, we shall go rejoin Andraste. She should have our remaining Grey Wardens assembled."

True to Serge's expectations, Andraste had indeed rallied every remaining Grey Warden in the compound. Loghain considered the Grey Wardens to be a private army that lacked necessary military discipline. Yet, seeing the variety of Grey Wardens lined up side by side in perfectly formed regiments was beginning to change his opinion. Men and women of varying races and sizes were arranged like little toy soldiers around the dusty courtyard. He saw archers and axe wielders, mages and shield bearers, and even some mages bearing shields. It was the most absurd sight of his life. From the slightest of elves with his hands dangling loosely by his sides, to the burliest of barbarians who heaved his shoulders in boredom, the loyal Grey Wardens stood and waited for their commander to speak.

There were not many Grey Wardens. Only ten lines of ten, but he knew half as many were in the palace from the looks of the roster. It was still a considerable force. Brought together as they were, it was hard for Loghain to ignore the hundred little pinpricks of consciousness at the edges of his thoughts. He had not even noticed it before, and he did not like it. If he could sense other Grey Wardens, they could sense him, and he understood now how the Grey Warden and Antivans had found them. The defectors had ratted them out, "tracked" them using their shared taint.

Andraste was standing at the top of the stairs, her back to Loghain and Serge as they approached. She had the roster rolled tightly into a baton, which she held between two hands clasped behind her back. The scabbards for her short sword and dagger were strapped tightly to her back, and Andraste bore no cloak to hide them. She stood staring at her troops brazenly, mesmerizing them with her intensity. She tilted her head slightly when she heard Serge scuff a foot on a stone behind her, signaling her that they had arrived.

"Wardens," said Andraste, her voice cutting through the silence like a lantern through mist, "it seems we have been divided. Long have we suspected that Marcus holds only his own interests at heart, but today he has made his intentions known. He has murdered the Warden Commander of Ferelden in a desperate bid to seize power in our eastern neighbor's stronghold, and even now controls the castle. He threatens Empress Celene, and in his madness, he would doom us all.

"Know that whether Marcus succeeds or fails in his machinations, the Chevaliers will come." She paused, letting the gravity of the situation settle in the guts of the Grey Wardens before her. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but no less powerful. Her quiet words carried to every ear in the still courtyard. "And when they come, they will not distinguish between which of us is faithful and which of us is not. We shall all meet our ends on the points of their swords. We shall be slain indiscriminately in the streets and the Grey Wardens will be hunted and pushed out of Orlais. This land will be red with our blood, and black with the Blight when it inevitably returns.

"We have lost friends and family today to a viper's tongue. Too long have we ingested the sweet poison of lies and deceit. Today, I urge you stand with me. Stand with the _true _Grey Wardens." She puffed out her chest and extended her baton, dragging it across the rows of Grey Wardens lined up before her. Her eyes sparkled with the ferocity of her words. "Together, we must put a stop to Marcus's madness, and we must do it soon. We must let Orlais and the rest of Thedas know that the Grey Wardens do not tolerate treason or terrorism. This is the only way that we may once more earn the trust of the people we are sworn to defend.

"You will have to slay your friends," she cried, "You will have to slay your family! Brothers will fall. Sisters will fall. However, they have made their choice, and they have chosen betrayal. They have chosen to stand apart from _you. _It was _they _who forsook _you. _ Never doubt this! Their deaths are a mercy, for the Grey Wardens were never meant to be divided." She gave a violent shake of her head as she said this, and her face contorted into a mask of pain as she considered the sick Grey Wardens that abandoned them. "We will end the suffering of those who are sick, and we shall place them into the waiting arms of the Grey Wardens who have gone before, for even in death and betrayal do we share kinship.

"Stand together. Be united. We are Grey Wardens. We can brook no distraction, no petty scheming, that would divert our vigilance elsewhere. Ready yourselves for battle, my friends. Carry your arms and wear your armor, for soon we shall be at war. So say I, Andraste Caron, your Warden Commander." Her voice had rolled like the beating of a war drum, a long, slow, sonorous thing. She stood still and confident, one hand on her hip, the other placed over her heart. The only sign of humanity on the woman's features with the way in which her cheeks had flushed the color Serge's robe.

There was silence amongst the ranks as the Grey Wardens turned to look at each other. Some murmured to friends and comrades, while others looked grimly to the civilians and peasants that had pulled themselves from their shops and homes to listen to Andraste speak.

"Grey Wardens!"

It was Flavius. The Tevinter man was in one of the back rows, his massive shoulders, and shocking hair obscured by the strange mix of people around him.

Slowly, but growing louder like approaching thunder, others joined the call.

"Grey Wardens!

"Grey Wardens!

"Grey Wardens!"

At the chant, Andraste lowered hand. A pleased smile crossed her features. "Grey Wardens, before we can look to Marcus, we must consider our own defenses. The senior Grey Wardens have their instructions for what must be done. Siege mode shall be lifted in two days. It is then that we shall make our move against Marcus and see his life ended, if indeed he has not already met his death. I dismiss you, and may the Maker watch over all of you."

With Andraste's blessing, the Grey Wardens began to divide and split into groups as they sought out their respective sub commanders. Much to his surprise, Loghain saw Flavius barking out orders to the Grey Wardens who had swarmed him.

"And now," Andraste turned to Serge, "we must discuss our strategy." She darted intelligent eyes to Loghain. "You were the last one in the palace, and your information will be the one we build our plans around, until my spies have returned."

"When did you send out spies?" asked Serge, surprised. "I thought you said that you had lost all of our Wardens in Ferelden. How did Ruckus and Thorne live?"

"They did not," she replied, "I found our new friends in Ferelden. I believe we can trust them."

"They are Fereldan," Loghain interjected, "of _course _you can trust them."

Andraste raised an amused eyebrow. "…yes. Of course." She clasped Loghain's arm with a gloved hand, mindful of the bloodstains as she did so. "Come. We have strategy to discuss, and I think it only fair that I explain to you the gravity of the situation: both in Ferelden, and in Orlais."

"Already halfway done." Serge smiled, "I took the liberty of explaining our predicament in Orlais while we were attending to his wounds. I assumed that you would have been too busy."

"How kind that you think of me!" Andraste canted her head, "thank you, Serge. I suppose that means we have only Ferelden to discuss. And by the Maker, do we have much to talk of."

Loghain did not like the way she looked at him. Her green eyes were far too sharp for his liking, and they were cutting him to ribbons with their tiny, pointed glances. Still, Loghain wanted answers, so he kept his silence. He followed Andraste and Serge back into the building, stepping as they did through the shadowy hallways and silent doors. He would adapt only as necessary, and comply only because it was required of him. Ferelden need him, and she needed him alive. In order to survive, he needed as much information as possible.

Though he hated this game, Loghain could play it. He was Loghain Mac Tir. Friend to King Maric. Hero of River Dane. General of Ferelden. Former Teyrn of Gwaren. Regent to Dowager Queen Anora. Warden Commander of Ferelden. He had sentenced men to death on cold, lonely battlefields in order to break enemy lines. He had let towns fall in order to hide his knowledge of an enemy's battle plans. He had ascended to the highest of social circles, having been born from the dirt itself. He had navigated a court of commoner-hating nobles. He had played their games and drank his fill of their poison and their lies, and he had done it with the same, stoic courage he bore now. There was no man alive who could see more threats than he could.

Yes, Loghain could play this game, and he would play it very well.

But only for as long as necessary. Once he had secured Ferelden's security, he was gone.

8-8-8

Andraste's spies had run into some trouble trying to infiltrate the palace. Though the front gates were open, there was a heavy guard around the courtyard and gate. Archers lined the walls and, all together, it was an impenetrable mess of men, malcontent, and weapons. They could not enter the front gate without being detected, and they could not ferret around the outside walls of the palace without raising suspicion. The skittish citizens of Val Royeaux were giving the palace and its walls a wide berth, not wanting to become mired in whatever conflict of interest was occurring inside. Getting into the palace would require unconventional thinking, which the spies were more than willing to do.

Even if it meant going through the sewers, and such a fate they had resigned themselves to with heavy hearts.

They had set out on their search to find a conveniently placed sewer grate when they came upon a most curious scene. There, on a tiny side street, was a host of bodies. _Dead _bodies by the smell of things; each cloaked and armored figure felled by a single grey-fletched arrow. Some of the bodies wore armor similar to that of the hostile figures in the palace courtyard. A big, ugly looking bastard with a crooked nose and bloody lips bore a griffon tattoo on his cheek. The others wore thick, black cloaks and carried slender blades, or at least, _had _carried slender blades in life. They were easily identified as Antivan Crows by both the color of their cloaks and the pendant of the crow-feathered mask around their necks. From the arrows, it was apparent that the two groups had not died by the other's hands. It meant that either the Grey Wardens had no quarrel with the Antivan Crows and this was merely an unlucky coincidence, or that the two were working together.

"Antivan Crows and Grey Wardens?"

"A perfect opportunity, wouldn't you say?"

"Most definitely."

Out of the sight of prying eyes, the spies picked their way around the corpses and gathered the trappings of the felled assassins. Cloaks were taken, weapons removed and replaced, and the Antivan Crow pendants removed. The spies had not seen any Antivan Crows in the courtyard, which meant that the majority of the visible forces at the palace were related to the Grey Wardens. The Grey Wardens were a tightly knit group, and likely knew one another. Neither spy could masquerade as a Grey Warden and hope to convince the mob of men and women to let them pass.

However, it was likely that the Grey Wardens were not as familiar with the faces of the Antivan Crows, and thus would be unable to distinguish between a real Antivan Crow and a fake. The Crows would be able to tell the difference, but that would only be an issue when the spies were inside the palace. Their first order of business was to get inside the walls without trouble. If the Grey Wardens and the Crows really were working together, the Grey Wardens would permit them inside. If they were not, then the spies could use the scene of Grey Wardens and Antivan Crows dead side by side as a cover story.

When the spies felt suitably "Antivan," they returned to the palace. "Let me do the talking," said the more slender spy, noticing the stern-faced woman barking orders at the Grey Wardens who were struggling to heave the palace gates shut. Her face was red from her shouting, and the faces of her subordinates were red from failure. The great, reinforced gates would not shut no matter how much they pulled and pried, and the grand portcullis would not drop either.

"You run into some trouble out there, Crows?" she asked, turning care-worn eyes to the spies. "You've returned without the Grey Wardens you departed with."

"Yes, barely." The unhooded spy nodded, "We were set upon by the other Grey Wardens. Their arrows were quicker than our blades. It was a most unfortunate massacre."

The woman grumbled something and put two leather-clad fingers to her forehead. She rubbed them in a circle, massaging between her brows. "Maker damn it. Go," she waved a hand at them, "and do what it is you're supposed to do, then. I don't care. Just stay out of our way."

The spies nodded and pushed their way into the courtyard. Now that they were in the palace itself, they kept their eyes alert and open. Every detail they absorbed, from the number of archers on the walls, to the curious mix of individuals roaming the grounds. People were filing in and out of a servant's entrance that was conveniently hidden from sight by several ornate topiaries in the shape of swans, but there were too many of them for the spies to believe that they were all Grey Wardens.

Everyone moved with the swiftness of a whip crack, and it was obvious that something had happened to disturb Marcus's carefully laid plans. Though the traitors were working as if under orders, they lacked cohesiveness; a unity. The supervisor at the front gate seemed oblivious to the supervisor within the palace proper, who was assigning guards and responsibilities without knowledge of what was occurring in the courtyard.

"Quite a lot of cooks in this kitchen, no?" whispered one spy, which caused a ripple of laughter to come from the other.

The spies swam through the sea of Grey Wardens and bought soldiers in the throne room, shooting dead-eyed glances at those individuals who decided to come too close. Crows did not mingle, though they did linger on the outskirts of the commotion. Keen ears gleaned information despite the din. There were, apparently, prisoners being held in the dungeons, as well as 'guests' in their rooms that needed to be 'protected.' East wing guards were to see to the prisoners. North wing guards were to see to the guests. There was no sign of the Empress in the throne room, or a mention of her in the shouted orders. Though these Grey Wardens were not very good at covert operations, they at least knew how to hold their cards.

Andraste had seemed to have a very good grasp of the situation when she'd sent them from the Grey Warden compound with her orders: find the Empress. She had been specifically concerned for the woman's safety, as well as the company she kept. If they found her, they would find the man she was looking for, and the spies _dearly _wanted to meet this man she called "Marcus." They had offered to play the roles of assassins, but Andraste had denied them the privilege. She had chided them that there was more at stake than revenge. They were to temper their blades.

The spies had combined knowledge enough of the palace to navigate their way to the Empress's apartments, and they were about to pull away down one of the veiled side corridors of the throne room when two figures burst through the corridor opposite. The dark-haired man with a face as bleak as storm clouds thundered into the room. Behind him trailed a wispy elven mage, her pretty face twisted into a scowl.

"You need to rest, Commander!" she pleaded, hands glowing white as her spells washed over him.

The dark-haired man only glared at her, as one hand clutched at his neck. An angry, jagged cut of red and puckered flesh below his jaw was slowly fading, but it was clear that the injury had been recently sustained. "Did anyone catch them?" His gaze turned out to the Grey Wardens. "I said, did anyone _catch _them?"

"They escaped, Warden Commander," said one of the Grey Wardens. "They killed several of the Antivans on their way out."

The spies shot wary glances at one another. They had found Andraste's Marcus.

Marcus's eyes fell on the two Antivan Crows that were lingering opposite him. "You couldn't even take care of one old man and an unarmored girl! What was the point in paying you? You failed so miserably." His fingers tightened on the scar at his neck. "I expected better."

"Actually," said the spy, his accent as smooth as honey, "we did kill the girl. It was the old man who got away." Andraste had told them how Warden Commander Aurora Cousland had perished. The Warden Commander of Ferelden was now Loghain Mac Tir, which was a strange irony. "He slunk back into his hole."

"And you didn't follow?"

"Antivan Crows," replied the taller spy, "are not meant to run around the streets in broad daylight, in view of _every enemy archer. _That is just suicide_._ We will finish him at nightfall. Even the most paranoid man must sleep at some point." She had just ensured their way out of the palace.

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux growled a curse at them before stalking towards them. The two spies stepped aside to allow the Warden Commander and his little healer to pass. They waited until the Grey Wardens had returned to their clamoring and talking once more before following after Marcus. To find Marcus, Andraste had said, they needed to find the Empress. It was likely that the statement also worked in reverse: to find the Empress, one needed to find Marcus.

Letting the thick carpet below their feet mute their footsteps, the spies set themselves after Val Royeaux's Warden Commander. Up a long and twisting flight of stairs they followed him, hearing the sound of his armor rattling on a landing several floors above them. They leapt after him, taking the stairs two by two on quick and nimble limbs. Their well-oiled weapons and armor made not a single sound as they moved.

Catching up to him did not prove to be a difficult task, for Marcus was not moving very fast or with much secrecy. He was limping, and the light of the mage's spells washing over his body made his black-armored form rather inconspicuous in the dim hallway. The spies used this to their advantage, knowing that the shadows in the hallway would appear darker to those caught inside the circles of light the mage emitted. They used this blindness to fold and blend against the walls. Keeping a respectful distance, the spies followed Marcus and the healer.

Marcus stopped at a set of ornately carved double doors. In the light of the healing magic, the carvings came to life. Half-naked women bathing in a stream laughed and splashed water at one another, while flowered vines fell from the tree branches above them. Birds sang from their perches, and a handsome, naked youth stood posed by a tree to stare at the magical sight before him. It was a scene from a very old Orlesian fairy tale.

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux pushed open the doors, revealing a happy, sunlit room of painted blue walls and pretty lace trim. There were doors in the room, leading to parts unknown. He slipped inside, the mage obediently after him, and then shut the doors behind him with a foot. Neither spy heard the sound of a lock clicking, but that did not stop them from putting their ears to the door to listen to what was happening inside the room. Another door opened and then shut, and that was when the spies knew they had clearance to enter.

They cracked open the double doors, setting an eye to the small space to check for danger. The Empress's sitting room was empty, and the crack between the doors widened enough to allow a slender woman or a full sized elf to slip through into the beautifully decorated room. They only had a short time to lament on their inability to rifle through the Empress's precious treasures, for this was clearly her apartment. The giant, life size portraits of her spread around the room said as much.

The Empress's private quarters and sleeping chamber were denoted by a set of large, gilded doors, and it was from behind these doors that the spies could hear the murmuring of a conversation. They did not dare to press their ears against the gold, lest they should mark it with their flesh and give away their presence. Instead, the spies crept to an adjacent door that looked dull and dark in comparison to the splendor of the room. Ears touched wood and heard nothing, and the door was pushed open with a gentle rustle of wind.

The room the spies entered was dark green and musty. The air was damp, stale, and old. A long, dusty table and matching chairs occupied the center of the room. From the streaky, brown patches on the tabletop, it was clear that the dust that had settled on the table from years of disuse had been recently disturbed (but by what, neither could guess). Dust had also been disturbed on one of the large, grim-faced portraits that hung on the wall separating this poorly lit closet from the Empress's private chambers.

Clever fingers poked and traced the frame of the painting, slowly edging it sideways, forcing it to tilt along its hook, until a peephole was revealed. A white smile caught a thin ray of sunlight. No doubt if the Empress knew of such a thing, she would be very, very angry…

A blue eye peered through the hole and watched as the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux knelt tenderly beside a sleeping Empress. A callused hand touched her cheek, fingers sliding over the pale curve to rest at her pink lips. She did not flinch or awaken at the touch.

"I need her awake," he said to the mage, who was out of sight of the peephole.

"It was a powerful draught," replied the elf's voice, "and brewed to your specifications. She won't awaken yet for several hours more."

"Do something useful with your skills, then, Evraille," Marcus replied, his hand still touching the Empress's sleeping features.

"I…" the mage's voice faltered, and then she came into view, her pale, blonde hair shining in the sunlight coming in through the lace curtains, "of course, Commander." Her slender fingers curled and twisted by her sides, plucking at the thin, grey fabric of her simple robe.

"Good. We need the gate shut. _Soon._" Marcus dropped a kiss on the Empress's forehead. "The Antivans failed to kill the older of the Fereldan Grey Wardens. I shudder to think of their failures in snuffing out the lights of our Empress's hot blooded Chevaliers and their captains."

"We have seen their widows crying and wailing in the streets," replied Evraille calmly, "I suspect the assassins were more successful than we gave them credit for, but I understand your need for haste. I imagine it will not take long for the army to rally."

Marcus flicked his eyes to the mage, blue eyes glittering with the force of their malice, "Even with the puppets?"

Evraille shifted uncomfortably with a whisper of wool on skin. "I…I did my best, but you know that such magic is not my school of focus. They should give us a few days at the," she stammered, "at the very least, Commander. My magic is strong enough to grant us that. I cannot promise you anything more."

"We cannot afford uncertainty, Evraille. Now," his fingers pinched at the Empress's chin, and he shook her head gently from side to side for emphasis, "purge our poor Empress of the toxin."

Through the peephole, Leliana watched. Beside her, Zevran listened.

* * *

_A little less exciting than the last chapter, but the exposition was necessary. Hopefully, this chapter shed some light on what's happening in Orlais in a believable manner. I dragged my feet through it, but I tried my best. At least there was a little bromance! _

_Lots of love goes to my beleaguered beta. I love you, Lady Winde! Take it easy, my muse. I don't want you running yourself into the ground. _

_And as always, many thanks goes to the readers! Thank you for the feedback and for the support! _


	35. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27 **

Evening draped her long cloak over Val Royeaux, and the busy streets fell into an oppressive hush as merchants, peasants, men, and women hurried into their homes to hide. The criers and heralds had been spouting gossip all afternoon, terrifying the citizens of Val Royeaux with their whispers of treachery in the palace. Some criers claimed that the Empress was dead. Others said that she was being held against her will in the dungeon. Yet, no one dared mention the possibility that the Empress was complicit in any of the strange behavior happening. For indeed, why would the Empress condone the murders of her most trusted servants? The streets were running red with the blood of Val Royeaux's military commanders and Chevaliers, all who were said to have been found in their beds with their throats slit, some with their wives sleeping unaware of their husbands' predicaments beside them.

The people looked to the templars and the city watch for protection, but they found none. Though the barracks were stirring with the sound of marching and drum beats, their gates remained shut. The only sounds of comfort were the clattering of hooves on cobblestones as armored couriers raced from the city to the outlying lands.

The Chevaliers would soon be rallied, and the griffon gates of the Grey Warden compound would be ripped down. They would then turn their attention to the palace and rip that gate off its hinges too. The portcullis that had slipped into place with the first tender lick of blood red sun and the thick wood and steel barrier beyond would be torn asunder.

Loghain (with Dane at his side), Serge, and Andraste stood in the cool evening air, temporarily safe behind their high walls as they mused their fate. They traded knowledge of the outside world for safety, though the Grey Warden watchmen posted above the palace-facing gates had mentioned seeing the portcullis fall into place and the gates snap shut.

The three of them stood outside the Grey Griffon, having just listened to the compound's hourly report. Serge dismissed the dwarf, Bhaldren, with a firm nod and a thanks for his diligence.

"She sold you out," remarked Loghain bitterly of the pretty Empress when he heard the news. "She shut the gates and sided with Marcus."

Dane began to bark, and Loghain shushed him with a gentle touch to his head.

"That is indeed the worst case scenario," agreed Andraste, "which means that when the Chevaliers do come, their blades will only feast on our blood. They will spare the Grey Wardens in the palace, that is, if the Empress commands them to. I am curious," she rubbed her chin thoughtfully, "what Marcus said to get her to close the gates."

"It was not his declaration of love," replied Zevran, who pulled himself from the shadows of the Grey Griffon's side street, "that is for certain." Leliana followed behind him. Both spies were dressed in the manner of Antivan Crows, with thick, black cloaks wrapped around their shoulders. Leliana's cheeks were flushed from exertion, and it was clear that they had both only recently arrived back in the compound.

"You return," Andraste spread out her arms and embraced Zevran, who gave a small chuckle. "Tell me what has happened." She extended an arm for Leliana, beckoning the fellow Orlesian close. Andraste's hand grasped Leliana' shoulder firmly, giving it a familiar squeeze.

Loghain's eyebrows rose at the sight of his two former comrades embracing the self-proclaimed Warden Commander of Val Royeaux. He didn't know what was stranger: seeing them, or seeing them in Andraste's graces.

Zevran saw Loghain's shock, for he gave him a sly wink. "You want a hug too, yes?"

"I want to know what's going on," replied Loghain brusquely. "We are all in danger of dying to Chevaliers, and you know exactly my thoughts on _that._" Dane growled at the prospect, echoing Loghain's sentiments.

"Oh, I see, straight down to business, no hello for Zevran." The former Antivan Crow sighed and gave a dramatic sweep of his hair over a shoulder. He revealed one of his slender, pointed ears to the crowd of Grey Wardens. He fluttered his eyelashes in feigned sadness.

Leliana gave him a consoling pat on the back. "No, no hello for you."

Dane barked.

"Ah, maybe there is a hello for me after all! Come here, handsome dog!"

Dane trotted to the crouching Zevran and gave the Antivan a lick across his tattooed cheek. Zevran chuckled at this and scratched behind his ears vigorously, while Leliana crooned something quietly and scratched between his brows. One of Dane's back legs scratched against the ground.

"Come, you two must be quite hungry after being so long in the palace, I suspect." Andraste gave a polite cough and gestured to the Grey Griffon, having sensed both Loghain and Serge's impatience at the display of familiarity between the mabari and the two spies. "Come inside and relate to us what you've found."

Leliana and Zevran nodded gratefully and followed Andraste into the tavern as they murmured their thanks. Serge followed after the trio and sent Loghain a wry smile over his shoulder. Loghain was the last to enter, his feet trampling heavily on the thick wooden floor of the establishment. He was curious to know what Marcus had told Celene, if indeed Marcus still lived at all. Loghain had seen the man's injury, and it appeared to be of the mortal sort. If he could walk away from such a blow, the man truly was going to be a hard bastard to kill. Nothing short of a beheading and burning would do. Hanging would not be enough.

"Well," said Leliana, regarding the bowl of thick, potato soup that Andraste had brought her, "Marcus had _poisoned _the Empress. Apparently, he slipped a sleep toxin into her wine." She took the piece of bread that Zevran offered her and dipped it into the creamy soup. "He wanted her out of the way while he worked, but he had not anticipated that she was the only one able to close the front gate." She darted a tongue out to test both temperature and taste. Finding the soup appropriately warm, she devoured the piece of bread with relish before returning to the herb-speckled broth.

"It is an odd system," added Zevran, licking a small splatter of soup from a fingertip, "to only close your gates at the command of a monarch. I assume it must be quite a troublesome spell for mages to cast, yes?"

Leliana nodded her head. "And difficult to dispel."

Serge's lips puckered in thought. "I imagine it is blood magic. A mage could bind someone's will into something with a drop or two of blood. Such a thing is not unheard of."

"It is a good way to ensure that there is at least always one exit." Andraste prodded at her own bowl of soup with a piece of bread crust. She offered it to Serge, who shook his head, and then placed it in her mouth with a shrug.

"Continue," ordered Loghain. "What work was he doing?"

"Marcus is playing both sides of the Orlesian court." Zevran smirked, "on the one hand, he is pressing the Empress for a marriage suit. On the other, he has the Empress's enemies in his custody. He has told the Empress that the Grey Wardens have been bribed by her enemies in the court to assassinate her, but that he has captured them and wishes to place her under his protection. To the Empress's enemies, he has said that the Empress has been selling Orlesian secrets to the Grey Wardens in exchange for monetary compensation. His reason for keeping them under guard is for their 'protection' against the evil Grey Wardens who would seek to kill them for knowing the truth."

Andraste shook her head in disbelief. "I am surprised Marcus can keep up with such a farce."

"I think the other nobles are just a ploy," said Leliana, "his main goal appears to marry the Empress. He will probably execute her enemies as a show of good faith. And even if he fails," she gave a small shrug of her shoulders, "he will have fragmented the Orlesian court and raised suspicion about the Grey Wardens that could be everlasting."

"More by his deeds than ours," Andraste replied darkly.

"Lies linger, my dear Warden Commander," Zevran gave her a lazy smile, "or as we say in Antiva, a river that rumbles brings boulders."

"Rumor mongering is no longer an art form anymore," Serge sighed, "a pity." He shook his head, the corners of his mouth drooping slightly in a mixture of humor and disappointment. "And a blessing."

Loghain had yet to touch the soup in front of him. He found himself full of suspicion, rather than hunger, but instead of scowling and shaking his head at the broth, he instead brought his icy, intense eyes to his former traveling companions. "And what has been Empress Celene's part in all this? The gate is closed. Marcus must have convinced her."

Zevran lowered his golden eyelashes in Loghain's direction. "She has been doing what every beautiful, young woman faced with the advances of an older man does."

"And what," replied Loghain frostily, "would _that _be, Antivan?" He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, and guessed that Zevran probably saw it, for the Antivan was smiling wickedly at him.

"She has been putting him off. Delaying answering him."

"She has claimed she is not yet ready to make the commitment," Leliana clarified gently, "and that it has all come too suddenly. She needs time to think. She has been on her own for so long. She consented to close the gate to buy herself time. Marcus left her bedchambers as soon as she gave the command." The former bard threaded her fingers through her hair and pushed it out of her eyes. "She is stalling for time."

"Marcus is too proud to coerce her, but I imagine he is probably desperate enough to continue to press a suit against her wishes…he is also on borrowed time. If he cannot convince the Empress to marry him, or at least absolve him of blame, his head will also be on a pike outside Val Royeaux." Andraste gave a weary sigh before putting a spoonful of soup to her lips. "If she does not trust him, she will stall until the Chevaliers arrive. And mark my words, they will come. They utterly adore the Empress."

"The most pressing matter," said Loghain, eying each of the individuals seated at the table, "is trying to enter the palace before the Chevaliers arrive."

"The gate will not bend to us, it is true," agreed Serge.

"They have hired guards, as well as Antivan Crows and Grey Wardens." Zevran sent the three Grey Wardens meaningful stares. "Going through the front gates would be a very bad idea."

"Are we trying to avoid enemy Grey Warden casualties?" Loghain posed the question to Andraste, "because whatever you plan to do with your turncoats will severely affect our plans."

"I intend to send them into the Deep Roads to meet their fallen siblings. It is tradition," Andraste said gravely, "I do not suffer traitors. Darkspawn I like more than traitors." The woman's green eyes were a chilling sight. "So, when we make our plan, do not take into consideration their safety. We are trying to eradicate this disease. We will not let it linger and spread. Those that surrender know what awaits them."

"Did either of you hear a mention of the Orlesian military?" Serge's fingers drummed rapidly on the table. "I find it strange that they are missing."

"You are familiar with the mage Evraille?" asked Zevran.

"I am," Serge nodded, "why?"

"She was apparently asked to enchant some commanders into delaying any action taken against the palace. She was," he smiled a dangerous smile, "uncertain about the length of such a thing. Marcus was most unhappy."

"Ah," Serge bobbed his head. "I understand; he had her use blood magic. Evraille is a powerful mage, I have no doubt her spells were quite potent. Still, I may be able to reverse the damage. Better to have soldiers die opening the gates to the palace than Grey Wardens, yes?"

"You can undo blood magic?" Leliana blinked in surprise. "That is fascinating."

"I can manipulate minds into doing my bidding, thus overriding any previous orders." Serge smirked. "So, yes. I can undo blood magic, in a way."

"That is what I want you to do tomorrow, Serge." Andraste pointed her spoon at her Second. "When we reopen the gate at first bell, I want you to take Alaric, Melina, and Ezra to the barracks. See if you cannot convince them that their time is best served pounding out an entrance to the castle for us."

"It shall be as you command, Commander." Serge's head dipped in acknowledgement of the order. "I will go find them and tell them to meet me tomorrow at the gate." Serge's dinner was barely touched. The blood mage had only nibbled on a small piece of bread, which he had been intermittently dunking into his soup crumb by crumb. With a flick of long, slender fingers, the extra bowl of soup and bread found its way in front of Andraste. Her own meal was nearly finished, the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux having inhaled it from her plate. "I bid you all good evening."

Loghain sent a curious glance to Serge, but the blood mage ignored it.

"Is there anything else you would tell us?" Andraste busied herself finishing what remained of her dinner, before working on what Serge had left behind. "How did you get into the palace?"

"Funny you should mention that," Zevran seemed eager to relate the story, as his eyes were glittering, "because I was about to suggest that we may need to take the sewers, which was how Leliana and I planned to originally enter the palace."

Loghain raised a thick eyebrow. "What changed your plans?"

"We found a lot of dead Grey Warden and Antivan Crow bodies," Leliana dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her fingers, "we were quite lucky."

Hope rose in Loghain's gut. "Dead? How?" Perhaps the Warden had lived. Perhaps she had found the strength to defend herself. They had not mentioned that they had found _her _body, so there was still a chance, a slim chance, that she was alive.

"Each man was killed by an arrow. Just one," Zevran held out his finger for arrow, "little, grey-fletched arrow. I thought a Grey Warden might have done it."

Loghain turned to Andraste, seeing if she could verify Zevran's suspicion, but found her green eyes fixated firmly at the bottom of her soup bowl. She stared intensely at the thick brown broth, and Loghain did not know if that boded well for them.

8-8-8

Dawn was snaking across the rooftops of Val Royeaux when the Warden became aware of herself once more. Sensation came in brief, blurry fragments. She noticed her feet first and their dull ache. Her toes were exposed to the air, her socks and boots having been stripped from her. They were cold, as were her breasts, for they were also exposed to the cool air of the room. Her nipples were puckered into tight, uncomfortable buds at the temperature. _Shirt. _ She thought blearily, but could not will her body to move.

Next came recognition of sunlight flickering across her eyelids, and this she grumbled and grunted at. She would have swatted the light away, if not for the heavy arm at her waist and the large, callused hand at her hip. She could feel the hairs on the arm tickling her skin, and felt the ruffle of her hair from someone's even breathing behind her. Thinking had not yet returned, though the word _Loghain _came to mind, and with the name came memories.

She must have muttered the word aloud, for the puffs of breath behind her neck turned into a low chuckle. "Disappointed?"

The Warden's eyes flashed open. Her hand went under her pillow for her dagger, but found no weapon there. She propelled herself out of the bed, breaking free of Vidar's light embrace as she scrambled to the wall. She felt something pull and give way painfully just below her left arm, and felt the trickle of something thick and viscous make its way down her side. She rested her injured side against the wall, shielding her chest and weakness from Vidar's prying eyes.

"You know, you shouldn't move so much," he drawled from the bed, rolling into the warm space she had left behind. "You'll rip your stitches. Oh," he smirked, "I see you already did. I guess I'll just have to redo them, then, and this time you'll be awake."

"Where am I?" asked the Warden, "Where is Loghain? Where are the other Grey Wardens?"

"You're in my _house,_" replied Vidar, "as for your Second, I'm damned if I know. And the other Grey Wardens? I think you know the answer to that."

"How did I get here?" She shivered; every muscle in her body was tense. She was ready to run, to fly into the forest like a deer from a hunter, if only she could control the shaking of her limbs.

"Ungrateful." Vidar tsked, and spoke in a voice that sounded like stones sliding down a rocky crag. "Don't they teach you Fereldan girls manners, or is it more than just the smell you share with dogs?"

"Do not toy with me, Vidar," said the Warden through clenched teeth, "I will not have it." Her legs were wobbling and her arms were trembling. She felt as weak as a lamb, but was not going to show it to this wolf. She was without a shirt and her eye patch. She felt terribly vulnerable.

"Oh," he drew out the word, "you _will _have it. I saved _you _and this is _my _home." He glowered at her, eyes never leaving her face. He watched the slow and steady spin of her magical eye, could acutely pick out the swirl of the smoke and magic within it. "Now, get away from my wall before you stain it."

The Warden frowned and pulled back her hand, and found her fingers covered in blood and caked in a strange, green paste. The assassin's blade had sliced and jabbed at her, deep enough to knick her ribs. But the wound did not ache; it only stung where the stitches had been ripped. She raised her fingertips to her nose and took a sniff of the strange poultice. She could not identify the herbs.

"Beggar's weed," Vidar said as he saw her movement, "sage's tongue, dried violet cactus, and shirewine leaf. And no," he gave another smirk when he saw her mouth open, "they do not grow in Ferelden. You would not be familiar with them."

"For the poison?"

The archer nodded and gave her a bored look at her obvious questions.

"Why?" She touched her wound again and then looked at his face. It finished the question for her: why save me?

"You were dying."

"But _why_?"

"Come lie down on the bed," Vidar ran a hand along a threadbare sheet, "and maybe I'll tell you." Dark splotches of dried blood stained the rolled up cuffs of Vidar's shirt. Even without his leather jerkin and impressive long bow, he was still an intimidating figure, and his virility and enthusiasm with the Empress only helped strengthen that perception. He had a lean, strong body and sinuous fingers that could wrap themselves around necks just as easily as they could wrap themselves around a bow string.

The Warden allowed herself a few moments to examine the room before she complied with Vidar's request. The bed that Vidar was lounging on was no wider than a cot, and only slightly longer. She understood why they had been arranged so intimately. It was out of necessity. Vidar had saved her and given her his bed, but even he needed to sleep, and he was not sort of man who would take to the floor when there was a guest in his house. Yet, he was also not the sort of man to put his guest on the floor either, though whether that was because he was attracted to her, or felt sorry for her, the Warden didn't know.

The thought of Vidar stripping off her clothes, bathing her, and then tending to her wounds did not send a flicker of arousal to her core as it might other women. It felt like an invasion of her privacy. She had no memories of anything after Loghain leaving her behind. She recalled shadows and sunlight, desperation and a sudden feeling of triumph, but that was it. Once her knees had given out and her head had hit the cobblestones her mind went blank. She could not even recall screaming or yelling. She did not even know what day it was, or how long she had been asleep. Vidar could have done any number of things to her while she was unconscious and in his 'care.'

She staggered to the bed, falling onto the suddenly alert and waiting Vidar. He cradled her upper body in his arms, trying to keep her weeping side away from his bed sheets. He growled in frustration as he saw his efforts failing. "More trouble than I bargained for."

He arranged her in the same position that she had woken up in. She lay on her side, with her cheek resting against a pitifully thin pillow, and her breast still exposed to the air. The Warden felt the bed creak and rise as he left it. She heard him pad around the room for various items. A trunk opened and closed, the floor boards groaned, and there was the rustle of linen before Vidar's warm body returned to her side.

Linen scraped and dabbed at the Warden's side, and she felt Vidar's fingertips along her stitches. She could not see him work, for he had lifted her arm above her head and forbidden her to move it. Flashes of pain lanced across her skin as something plucked and pried at her, but then the pain gave way to a blissful nothingness. She was cold and numb.

Vidar chewed on his tongue as he worked. He made quick, precise stitches. The tip of the needle slipped through the Warden's skin with ease, and he gently eased the taut skin together with his fingertips. He made fourteen stitches in total, adding an additional four to give the thread some support. Should the Warden attempt to flail and run again, at least she would have a harder time splitting herself open again.

"How did you find me?" asked the Warden, her throat dry. "And could I have some water? And something to cover my feet? I am cold."

"I found you by the blood trail and the overturned fruit carts," Vidar replied dryly, dabbing more of the poultice on the wound. He packed it on thoroughly before layering a piece of fabric atop it. "And you're cold because the antidote is working. For such a rugged country, I thought you'd at least know some herblore."

"I am not exactly the type to pick flowers."

"Or wear them." An awkward, almost _tender _pause followed, where Vidar's hands worked to soothe and heal her wound. The smallest finger of his left hand seemed to find the curve of her breast appealing, for it caressed the skin there in an absentminded manner.

"Mm." A small shiver sent the Warden's teeth chattering. "Why did you find me?"

"I was asked to." Vidar carefully scraped away the old and bloodied herbs that had slipped down the Warden's side and pooled above the band of her pants. He felt the muscles in the Warden's stomach contract at his touch and he gave a small sound of disgust. "Lose your ego, Fereldan. I like my wenches warm and pretty."

The Warden kept her silence about what she had seen in Celene's chamber, though Vidar's tone just _begged _her to correct him. She decided she would do so at a later date, when she wasn't so weak. "Who asked you to?"

"The First Warden," he replied. "In Weisshaupt."

The numbing sensation of the poultice began to slip through the slit of her sewn wound and down her veins. She felt it in her toes and the tips of her fingers. "There was no contact," she said, her tongue thick in her mouth. "No mail. No letters."

Vidar chuckled. "It wasn't _obvious _that Marcus was tampering with the mail? Everyone knew he was doing it. Still," his smile was wolfish and predatory, "he can't intercept _every_ letter."

"That would explain a lot of things." The Warden sighed, but tried to tense her abdomen as she did so to limit the amount of pulling on her newly placed stitches. "Why must I go to Weisshaupt? More importantly, why would the First contact you instead of Serge?"

"I don't know why you've got to go there," Vidar moved off the bed to return his poultice, bandages, and needle and boiled thread to their respective locations. "Don't really care either. Just have to get you there." He pointedly avoided answering her other question.

"I will go there in my own time," the Warden shifted on the bed and earned herself several curses for it, "I had planned to go there anyway. I just did not have the proper clearance to leave." The Warden was not so sure that she wanted to go to Weisshaupt, but she was willing to lie about it if it meant getting Vidar to talk. There was no telling what would await her in the cold and snowy north. A chill settled in her gut, and it was not of the antidote's making. Marcus had wanted to extract her womb… she was not about to believe that the First of the Grey Wardens was going to act in a different manner. These men all had strange plans for her because they were threatened by her. She would not allow herself to be intimidated, nor would she allow herself to be led as a lamb to slaughter.

"Not surprising."

There was the clattering and clanking of things once more out of her line of sight, and the Warden gave a frustrated sigh. She had lost sensation in a kneecap. "I even offered to go the first day I met Marcus. Within the week. He declined."

"Men like Marcus don't give up their games so easily," Vidar responded in an absent voice, preoccupied sorting through the vials in the chest he kept on his desk. "Makes their schemes easier to twist. I'm surprised you didn't leave anyway. I would have."

"I suspect you know more about the political landscape here than I do. You would be better informed." She had lost feeling in the other kneecap too, and everything below it. "There's something wrong with my legs. I can't feel them."

Vidar grunted and shrugged. "You have a fever." He snapped the lid of the chest shut.

"Oh." The Warden shifted again, and winced when the bed creaked and gave her away.

"Once more and I tie you down."

"Don't be so dramatic." The Warden's voice sounded slow and languid to her ears.

"Says the one-eyed 'Warden Commander.'" He wielded the title like a knife. "Don't know how you made it out of Ferelden alive. Actually, don't really care either."

"Well, when Serge and I have dealt with Marcus, Loghain and I will go northward. We will soon be out of your hair."

"Not happening." Vidar returned once more to the bed and settled himself so that he was pressed tightly against the Warden's body. There was no other way for them to rest comfortably on the bed, and this was _his _bed after all. "You aren't going anywhere."

Slivers of ice worked their way up the back of the Warden's neck, over her skull, and down over her temples. "I need to help them," she replied, stifling a yawn. "They need me."

"Leave the politics to the old men." He flexed his fingers against her hip, their rough pads digging into the soft flesh there as a lover might do.

"I'm the Warden Commander," she protested weakly, trying to fight both sleep and the warm sensation of Vidar's hand on her skin. "Of Ferelden."

Vidar chuckled in his low, dark manner. "No, you're a sheep, little girl," he whispered in her ear, "just part of the flock. You will go where they tell you."

"I am not…a sheep."

"Maybe one day," his lips skimmed the shell of her ear, "but not yet."

"Am not a sheep. M'not." Her eyes were fighting for sleep. Every time they fell, she found it harder to pull them up again. She felt herself slowly sinking, the edges of her vision becoming misty and hazy.

"Sheep or commander, it doesn't really matter." His hot breath rolled across her cold, bloodless skin. His last words echoed in her ears before she succumbed fully to sleep. "We're all herded, and we're all slaughtered."

A few incoherent words marked the end of the Warden's protests as she drifted into the sleep Vidar had designed for her. He had been lax in reapplying the poultice, having slept longer than he had anticipated. It had dried and lost its potency while he'd been resting, but he would not make the same mistake again. He tested her side with a finger, gently probing the area around the poultice.

She stirred as he touched her, something rumbled deep below her breasts to indicate her displeasure. Vidar hushed her, humming a quite tune in her ear to settle. It was something he had heard his mother's gardeners sing when he was a boy, and it had stuck with him. Much of his childhood he chose to forget, finding the memories too painful. He was still bitter and the pain was still raw. He had been forcefully plucked and replanted elsewhere, just like the plants in his mother's garden. But out of all of his memories, this one was the clearest in his mind.

_She had his hand firmly in hers, not caring about the fact that his hands were covered in dirt and hers were clean and lily white. Around her slender wrist was a set of prayer beads and they jingled and clicked as they walked hand in hand through the rows of exotic flowers. His mother was wearing the crown of flowers he had made for her, the tiny white of the petals complementing the rich, chestnut waves that tumbled down her back. Her gown was the same color of the petals, but her feet were dirty like his hands. She walked barefoot, gown held in one hand, her son's hand in the other. Music was drifting through the garden as the gardeners sung while they worked._

"_Mother," he asked, "what's the tune they're singing?"_

"'_Tis an old remedy, my son," she had replied, "for things that heat the blood." _

"_I can't hear the words. Can you sing it for me?"_

_Her laughter had tinkled like the chiming of silver bells. "I can, my son. 'Tis a simple rhyme:_

_Beggar's Weed for cleansing_

_the blood when 'tis too hot, _

_and Sage's Tongue for healing, _

_when the body's will cannot. _

_Cactus for the numbing, _

_but only the Violet kind,_

_and Shirewine Leaf for sleeping_

_and easy peace of mind." _

Antivans were notorious for their spicy brews, as were Nevarrans. Death came painfully, and was often messy. Eyes would weep, skin would expand, and blood would flow. In the Anderfels, poison was cold. It attacked slowly, discreetly, eating away at strength and resilience until death came as gently as winter's first snowfall. Poison was supposed to be practical; not dramatic. It was only when he joined the Grey Wardens that he learned the usefulness of such knowledge.

When at last the Warden rested calmly and was unable to be roused by Vidar's probing fingers, he settled his head on the pillow behind her. He had been out most of the night hunting stray Antivan Crows and turncoat Grey Wardens, leading them across the city and away from his small safe house. He needed his rest. The Chevaliers would come to the city soon, and when the gates were under siege, they would make their journey northward. He would not have much time to prepare.

* * *

_This chapter took longer to write than I expected, and is much shorter than my expectations (hard to top 16k words, aheh...), but I'm having trouble with my muses. LSATs, grad school, and work are sucking the energy right out of me, but I should be able to manage at least one update a week. Things should significantly improve after December when I finish my semester and all my law school applications. *crosses fingers* At least now we know that Lady Grey isn't dead! Oh, and we also know who was behind killing the Antivan Crows and Grey Wardens that Zevran and Leliana found! _

_Many thanks to Lady Winde for being an awesome beta. You really helped me out with this chapter, my darling. I don't think it would have been nearly as interesting without you. Thanks also go out to Buzz, who helped this chapter get started. (I suppose I should also thank David Bowie and his codpiece? *ahem*)_

_And to the readers, reviewers, and alerters, you have my undying thanks and appreciation! You are a never ending source of motivation and insight. If you haven't done so already, I would suggest you check out my profile page for links to all of Lady Winde's art (zomghotVidar), as well as the Trovommi Amor fanmix. _


	36. Interlude IX

**Interlude IX: Cradle and All **

_Out on the road before Castle Cousland, Maric Theirin, King of Ferelden, and Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren, had stopped. Maric had a hand to his forehead, and Loghain was shifting in his saddle. An autumn breeze rolled down the road behind them and ruffled hair and cloth in its wake. Loghain shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around himself, but Maric seemed unperturbed by the sudden chill. _

"_Loghain," said Maric, a frown crossing his face, "I completely forgot to buy Bryce's daughter a gift." _

_Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Why would you buy her a gift?" _

"_To make her like me, of course," Maric shot him a grin. _

_Both men were on route to visit Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, to discuss some very important trade arrangements, and Loghain did not want to be delayed. Loghain grunted something and shook his head, nudging his horse onward to the gates of Castle Cousland that were looming in the distance. "I don't think there's going to be any hope of that, Maric." Loghain had seen children from the sternest and sturdiest parents in the kingdom present their infant children before Maric for a blessing, and each one had screamed and burst into tears at the King's approach. Maric was getting very good at laughing such situations off, but it was evident that it upset him to some degree. _

"_Oh, you," Maric shot his friend a look of theatrical pain, and only smiled when he saw that Loghain's gaze was fixed on their point of destination. "I feel miserly, though. Bryce used to send Cailan presents every year."_

"_I believe you sent Fergus Cousland presents each year," Loghain looked at Maric from the corner of his eye, noting the preoccupation on his face. "I am sure Bryce will forgive you for any lack of proprietary. He has two children now, after all, and while you may be the king, you're not exactly made of money, are you?" _

_Loghain was referring to the dry spell in the Fereldan treasury that had occurred as a result of the threat of famine that had swept across the country last year. Crop yields had been poor, and there had been a lack of rain, and so the majority of the bannorn had faced starvation. Maric had made trade deals with the Free Marches to import food into the kingdom. The people had hailed him as a hero, but his treasury had suffered as a result. Maric had been forced to tighten his belt, since what the treasury could not cover, Maric gave of his own funds. _

"_Still, I've never had a daughter," replied Maric, "I didn't see much of Anora growing up." He looked wistfully off at a group of flowers that were growing by the wayside. "There went my dream of living vicariously through you; but at least I could spoil her from afar." _

"_Yes, the plethora of presents she received from both you and Cailan pleased her to no end," Loghain said drolly. "You created a monster. My gifts were never as good as yours. I couldn't compete."_

_Maric chuckled at that. "At least you didn't give up."_

"_Indeed not. I would never have heard the end of it."_

"_It will be nice to see Bryce again." Maric made a quick change of subject. "From his letters, he sounds much happier." _

"_I imagine that he would be."_

_Both Loghain and Maric remembered a time when they would sit together with Bryce in Maric's study, working into the night with snifters of brandy in their hands to resolve the famine. Bryce had been unusually grim, and his handsome, gregarious face had taken on a sullen, serious slant. When asked what was wrong, Bryce had lamented that he was not in Highever with his wife. Maric and Loghain both knew she was with child, but they had not realized that her pregnancy was proving to be difficult. Maric was willing to let Bryce return home to see to her, but Bryce had shook his head and vowed that he would help resolve the crisis. He had to do his duty. Through the predictions that came in midsummer to the poor yield that came in the fall, Bryce had stayed with Loghain and Maric throughout the mounting crisis. _

_So it was that when a messenger had arrived in Denerim during the Harvestmere proclaiming that Teyrna Eleanor had given birth, Maric and Loghain were the first Bryce told. Bryce had literally skipped down the halls of the palace, the mane of his hair fluttering behind him as his wide and eager smile led the way straight to the king's study. "Maric!" he had called, grasping the king's arms when he opened the door, "I have a daughter!" _

_Maric's smile had been just as wide and pleased, and he had embraced his friend and given him a friendly shake. "This is excellent news, Bryce!" _

_A more somber Loghain, who had hovered behind Maric's shoulder, had given him a small smile and a firm nod of his head. "Indeed. My congratulations also." _

_The Teyrn of Highever had been reduced almost to tears, and he had sagged with relief into his king's arms. It had been a troubled pregnancy for Eleanor, she had bled, fainted, been sick, and forced into bed rest. All the while, Bryce had been a consistent source of support for Maric and Loghain's policies, and had contributed his own when appropriate. He had feared for her safety, and the safety of their unborn child, and no doubt it came to him as the greatest relief to know that both his wife and daughter were well. Eleanor was weak, but would recover. His daughter was healthy, and was said to have a pair of lungs on her that could be heard from Highever to Gwaren. _

_It had been one of those moments that proved that the Maker had not truly forsaken them, and that He rewarded those individuals that attended to their duties selflessly. _

_Maric drifted into a thoughtful silence, letting Loghain take the lead as they made their way to Castle Cousland. Children were a constant reminder to both men about what they had been fighting for. Every new birth sent a jolt of pride through their bodies, since they had been integral in providing these tiny lives with the chance to be free. Maric was always especially pleased when he learned of new additions to the families of the men and women that had fought beside him during the Rebellion. While all Fereldans deserved happiness, it was these Fereldans especially who deserved the Maker's blessings. _

_As was Bryce's custom, the gates to Castle Cousland were open. Shouts sounded throughout the courtyard recognizing the presence of King Maric and Teyrn Loghain, and guardsmen and servants in the courtyard dropped to their knees in respect. Maric pleaded with them to stand, and gave those daring few who raised their eyes a boyish smile. The Seneschal was the first to rise, and it was with a deep bow of his head and a pleasant voice that he welcomed them. _

"_We were not expecting you so early, my lords," said the Seneschal as he directed eager servants to take care of their guests' horses and belongings. He ordered an elf to go find the Teyrn and alert him of his guests' arrival. _

"_We made good time on the road," explained Maric. From the corner of his eye, he saw a slim elf struggling under one of his bags, and was quick to reach out and take the saddlebag from the girl. "Don't trouble yourself. I packed poorly, the burden should be mine."_

_The elf blinked her pretty brown eyes before him, blushing an equally pretty shade of pink. Her fingers nervously slipped into the thick mass of her pretty brown hair, twisting it coyly. _

_Loghain gave a cough when he saw Maric's eyes linger on her features, and it was (thankfully) enough to draw the king's attention back to the present. Loghain found elves as comely as the next man, but Maric's fetish was something that mystified and dismayed him. _

"_We also left early," added Loghain. He sent the king a droll smile, attempting to help Maric cover his lapse, "he was eager to leave Denerim."_

"_When am I not?" replied Maric with a grin, accepting Loghain's help, "Ferelden is a beautiful country, and I would see and experience all of her!"_

_The Seneschal chuckled politely at the king's ribald insinuation. "Hopefully, Your Majesty and Your Grace will enjoy your stays in Highever." _

"_She has many fine qualities! I am sure we will," assured Maric. He sent a sly look at Loghain, "At least we will if His Grace here doesn't talk Bryce's ear off about trade and politics." _

_Loghain gave an indignant huff of air, though he didn't truly mean it. Their banter was as much for their benefit as it was for the servants and guards that were scrambling around their feet. The easy way in which they addressed each other was a sign that the kingdom was doing well. Were Ferelden in a much more precarious position, Maric and Loghain would have kept their words clipped, humor tightly reined, and pressed the Seneschal to bring them to Bryce immediately. _

_As it was, they were content to just follow after the man as he led them to their usual rooms in the castle's guest apartments. Loghain received the rooms where the windows faced east, because it was well known that Loghain liked to rise with the first light of dawn. Maric received the darker rooms, since the king liked to take his breakfasts as late as he took his bedtime. Both men gratefully accepted their rooms and dumped their packs on the large, inviting beds. Maric took no time in divesting himself of his riding leathers, but Loghain took a more luxurious approach. He removed his armor slowly, meticulously arranging the pieces on the armor stand that Bryce always kept in his room. _

_Loghain was enjoying the view (as he always did) of the afternoon countryside from his window when he heard Bryce's voice and steady knocking on the other side of his door. He also heard the distant chuckling of Maric from beyond the thick wood, laughing at something Bryce had said. He moved from the window to the door, letting his hand linger on the iron handle before tugging the thing open. _

_Bryce looked awful, and it was not because of the bright orange tunic he wore. The circles around his eyes were deep purple and black, and the man looked more as though he'd picked one too many fights rather than lost hours of sleep. His eyes were also blood shot and red, and the lines around his jowls had become deeper and more pronounced. Yet, despite his tired appearance and haggard looking features, his smile was as bright and radiant as ever. He extended a sword callused hand to Loghain. "Hello again, my friend." _

_Loghain took the other Teyrn's hand in his own, and gave it a firm shake. Loghain and Bryce were allies, but not quite friends. They were connected through the charming, gregarious Maric, as well as their own stations, yet neither man sought the other's company outside of the palace. They often passed each other in hallways with only the barest and briefest of nods, and came together only when it was required. Bryce supported Maric's claim to the throne, and had come to Loghain's defense when he had first been named Teyrn of Gwaren, and in that regard, Loghain could find no fault in the man. However, there were times when Loghain could not help but feel that Bryce Cousland was no better than the other ancient families of Ferelden. Though he was wise beyond his years and a reliable man, sometimes Bryce felt that his course of counsel was the best, and it was the best because his ancestors made it so. "Pleasure as always, Bryce. How is your family?"_

_If Bryce's smile could get any more pleasant, it would have. "They are all wonderful. Regretfully, it is only Aurora and I here at the moment. Fergus and Eleanor have gone to Amaranthine for the week." _

_Maric put a hand on Bryce's shoulder, leaning on the younger man as he leaned towards Loghain, "Bryce has made such a sacrifice. To think, he gave up going to the Lady Howe's salon to stay behind and draft a trade agreement with us!" Maric's tunic matched Bryce's in its intensity, and it was all Loghain could do not to squint against the green and orange contrast. _

"_Some sacrifice," said Loghain dryly. Salons were one of Loghain's least favorite things, after the Landsmeet, and the Maker knew that there was always a salon happening at Amaranthine. Even though he knew Rendon's wife was a practical and virtuous woman, he guessed she must have been incredibly lonely to send out so many summons for company. _

_Bryce chuckled in agreement with Loghain and gently shrugged off Maric's hand. "Come, gentlemen, let's retreat to my study and at least begin the proposal before dinner." When he saw Loghain and Maric nod, he led them to the family apartments. "Dinner," he said in idle conversation, "should be quail. I believe I saw my huntsmen bringing some in this morning." _

"_Quail," Maric bobbed his head in appraisal as his eyes wandered around the various thick tapestries that hung around the corridor, "sounds delicious. I haven't had quail since…"_

"_The night before we left," supplied Loghain with a smirk. "And then the night before that too."_

"_It is one of my favorite foods," admitted Maric sheepishly. "I could eat quail everyday and never tire of it."_

"_I wouldn't say that out loud, Your Majesty," Bryce gave the king a quick look over his shoulder. "Or else we truly will be eating quail every day."_

"_Would that really be such a bad thing?" teased the King. "Actually, no, don't answer that. I'll try to keep my preferences hidden from your servants, Bryce." Maric looked around for servants who might be eavesdropping, but found their hallway empty and the doors on either side shut tightly. _

_As they approached the Cousland quarters, they could hear the distinct sound of a child's crying. Hoarse, throaty wailing was coming from beyond the thick doors to the family apartments, and Bryce's smile towards Loghain and Maric was wry. "Loud enough to be heard from Highever to Gwaren." He pushed open the thick door, and the crying instantly became louder. _

"_Maker, but she can cry," said Maric in surprise. "Cailan didn't make a peep when he was growing up." Cailan had been an easy going child. He enjoyed suckling from his mother, sleeping beside her, and being held. He had occasional bouts of crying, but he was always quick to smile or gurgle it away after a few minutes. Or so he had been when Maric had gotten the opportunity to spend time with him. Duties to the kingdom kept him otherwise preoccupied, much to his chagrin. "Doesn't she stop for air?"_

"_I think," and Bryce tried to stifle a hiccup of slightly hysterical laughter, "that she likes the sound of her own voice a bit too much than is healthy!" _

_Loghain and Maric shared a look, and assumed that Bryce's sudden mania and penchant for humor was due to a lack of sleep. _

"_Colic?" asked Loghain. Anora had suffered from colic. Up until her half year of life, she had screamed without end for days. Celia had rocked and soothed her, understanding the source of Anora's pain, but unsure of how to end it. Loghain's father had always said that the best way to quiet a small, crying child was with a thimble of brandy, but Celia had only frowned at him for the suggestion. Still, Loghain had not been convinced that whatever concoction she'd purchased from the herbalist did not contain the stuff. _

"_Perhaps," Bryce gave a shrug. "She quiets when she's being held. She only starts crying when she realizes that it isn't Eleanor or I tending to her." He drew them down another hallway, closer to the source of the crying. "She is with her nursemaid at the moment; normally she's quite good for her." He stopped them in front of a nondescript wooden door and drew out a key from his pocket. Slipping it into the lock and turning it, Bryce pushed the door to his study open and gestured for his guests to enter. _

_It was clear that Loghain and Maric's arrival had disturbed the Teyrn, since there were papers strewn about his desk and a mug of half-finished wine perched on its edge. The desk itself was large and practical, constructed of fine, sturdy, Fereldan wood. The ornate carvings on the desk had been slowly worn away by time, but it made the piece no less impressive. The chairs were impressive too, for they were tall and cushioned, which was quite the treat for their saddle sore bottoms. There was also a fire was crackling in the hearth, warding off the chilly air of autumn. It made the room smell like warm, spiced wood. It was hard for Maric to believe that he hadn't seen Bryce in over a year. The famine seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago. _

_Loghain was settling himself in a chair when Maric turned to Bryce and put his hand on his shoulder. The crying was unnerving; Maric didn't like crying. "You can bring her in, Bryce. I don't mind, and I'm sure Loghain doesn't either." _

_Bryce raised an eyebrow at the king. "I'm sorry that her crying displeases you so, Your Majesty."_

"_She just sounds so," Maric heard a particularly mournful scream, "unhappy. And it isn't as though little Aurora will be able to tell anyone of what she hears, will she?" _

"_Hah," Bryce nodded, "true enough. Please, make yourself comfortable while I go get my daughter."_

_Maric did as Bryce instructed and took the seat next to Loghain. He leaned forward, sorting through the papers on Bryce's desk while Loghain sent him a reproachful stare. _

"_Maric," scolded Loghain, "those aren't your things." _

"_No, but they bear my signature," Maric held up a letter that held his wax seal and illegible scrawl, "and are relevant to our discussion."_

_Loghain scowled in silence, listening to the ruffle of Maric helpfully organizing papers. He let his eyes wander over Bryce's warm study. He noticed the maps of Ferelden hanging on the wall, as well as the beautiful painting of Eleanor that hung on the wall beside his desk. Above the mantle hung swords, each mounted on a beautiful piece of black wood. Loghain recognized three of them as Orlesian by the subtle cut of the pommel. Bryce was not a greedy man, but when Chevaliers surrendered to him, he demanded their arms and armor. Loghain was seeing now what he had done with many of the pieces he had collected during the war. _

"_Do you think you and Celia will have any more children, Loghain?" asked Maric suddenly. He turned his golden head and regarded his friend with a strange sort of curiosity. _

_Loghain blanched and gave himself a few moments to gather an answer. "I…suppose we might. It is not something we have discussed for some time." After Anora had been born, Celia had expressed interest in having another child. Anora's pregnancy and birth had been easy, and Celia was quick to excel in motherhood as she had in gardening. But when Rowan had died, all their plans for another child faded quickly, since Loghain rarely returned home. Those occasions when he did return often collided with Celia's moon blood, and so there had been little opportunity for anything more than an emotional reunion. _

"_I would have liked another child," said Maric in a quiet voice. He settled back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. His head rested on the back of the chair, "perhaps a little sister for Cailan to go with Anora's little brother." Melancholy lingered in his sigh. "No matter." Maric had not spent much time with Cailan when he was an infant. He had been too busy tying up loose ends of the Rebellion and ensuring Ferelden's security to help Rowan raise the boy as he ought to. All that had changed when Rowan had died, and it was up to Maric to see to his son. He envied Loghain the moments he had spent with Anora when she was a baby. He wished he'd had that much time with Cailan, but he'd been so busy…_

_Bryce returned before the silence growing between the two men became too awkward. In his arms, dressed in a gown of soft, fluffy wool that gave her a rather lamb-like appearance, was the apple of Bryce's eye. Little Aurora, now a year old or so, had one hand curled into her father's tunic and the other curled into the little golden ringlets of her head. Her big, bright eyes peered owlishly into her father's study, darting around between the fire in the hearth and the two men sitting in front of her father's desk. She grumbled something and pressed her face into her father's tunic. _

"_Loghain, Maric," Bryce shut the door behind them and moved to his chair on the other side of the desk. He removed a ragged, patchwork dog from a back pocket before sitting. "This is my daughter, Aurora." He pressed lightly on his daughter's cheek with a forefinger and placed his thumb below her chin. He gently turned her head. When she was facing his two guests, he drew his hand away and ruffled the fluffy curls on her head before gesturing at the King. "Aurora, this is the King of Ferelden, Maric. Can you say hello to Maric for me, pup?"_

_The hand curled in her father's shirt reached out for Maric. Her little tongue curled out of her mouth and she burbled something at him, jerking her hand at him. _

_Maric wiggled his fingers at her in a wave. "Hello to you, Lady Aurora." He sent her a large smile, which she promptly returned before sticking her fingers quickly in her mouth. _

"_And this is Teyrn Loghain of Gwaren," Bryce shifted so that his daughter could see Loghain. "Might you say hello to Loghain too?"_

_Another burble, this time around her fingers, and a blink of wide eyes was Loghain's greeting. _

_Loghain gave the girl a soft smile. "Hello, Aurora." It was hard for him not to see Anora in her little round face and fluffy blonde hair. _

_Bryce repositioned the child in his arms, setting her back against the crook of his elbow. Little fluffy socks poked out from underneath the hem of the wool dress as she kicked her legs. He dangled the thin, stuffed doll over the girl, letting her little hands come up to reach for it before he gave it to her. "So," he said, "let us at least begin a preliminary discussion of this agreement. You've been in contact with their ambassadors, yes?"_

_Maric nodded. "I have. What I wanted to ask you was…" He broke into a chuckle when Aurora unexpectedly reached out a hand and smacked Bryce in the chin with her doll. _

"_Pup, that is not good behavior," the Teyrn absently swatted away the doll, his eyes on Maric as he expected him to continue. _

"_Err…" Maric collected his thoughts. "What I wanted to ask you was if you would be able to…" He blinked at the sudden impact of Aurora's stuffed doll against his chest. He held the wet, ragged thing between two fingers with a raised eyebrow. "Erg…"_

_Squeals of laughter came from the girl, while a sigh of long suffering patience came from Bryce's chest. "You are acting very poorly, Aurora. Once more, and I shall put you back with Nan." _

_The threat seemed to have very little impact on the girl, who seemed to be laughing very happily now that she had their attention. Loghain was also chuckling, but was doing his best to hide it behind a hand. She was getting exactly what she wanted. Her arms stretched out to her father, her big eyes looking up at him. When Bryce did not acknowledge her and opened his mouth to speak to the king instead, she waved them fussily, chanting out a chorus of, "Da," to get him to look at her. _

"_I'm sorry, Maric," apologized Bryce, shifting the bundle in his arms, "she's proving to be more of a distraction than I had planned. This is normally her nap time, so I imagined she would be more…tired. She would sleep, or at least be more lethargic. " _

"_Da!" A small hand found the edge of his collar and little fingers worked against the skin of his neck. Her little legs kicked against his knee and she squirmed in his arms, trying to pull herself into a standing position amidst the shifting quagmire of Bryce's arms and legs. _

_Maric shook his head, "Don't think anything of it, Bryce. I asked you to bring her into join us. I'll admit though, I'm not as inclined to discuss trade arrangements now." He couldn't help but watch the antics of the little girl trying to get her father's attention. "I'll admit I'm quite envious." _

_Aurora, having not gained her father's attention, sullenly settled herself on Bryce's lap. Hands went into her curls, twisting the hair around her fingers, as her face became a mask of displeasure. Loghain knew what was about to come next, and was ready for the loud, high pitched wail of the neglected girl. _

_Bryce winced and gathered the girl against his chest, positioning her so that her little chin rested on his shoulder. He stroked the back of her head with his fingertips, making small shushing noises to quiet his daughter. He felt the little, hot puffs of breath against his neck begin to even out as her breathing steadied and her emotions settled. _

"_She has you well-trained, Bryce," said Loghain, though there was no malice in his comment. Anora had shown a similar trait as an infant. If she was not the center of attention, she was not happy, and would cry until she was again. She had also been fiercely independent, and had demanded attention indiscriminately from anyone. It didn't matter if they were strangers or her family. Curious, fearless Anora wanted it all. He did not yet know if Bryce's daughter was as shameless. _

"_She does," said Bryce quietly, "though to Eleanor's credit and my own, at least she no longer cries when we put her in her crib." He trailed a finger in a lazy pattern over the wooly back of his daughter's dress. Her fingers wiggled in pleasure, and she crooned out a hazy, happy sound at the attention. _

_Loghain gave an approving nod. "That's a good start."_

"_I thought she might be the same as Fergus, alas," the Teyrn of Highever smiled, "she is entirely her own monster." _

_Maric watched the interaction between father and daughter with curiosity, and felt the pang of nostalgia and regret in his gut. "Bryce, could I," his fingers flexed, "do you think I could hold her?" He missed those years when Cailan had been nothing but a swaddled, wriggling mass of happy smiles and blond hair in Rowan's arms. _

"_Err," Bryce looked taken aback by the question. "Of course you can, though I can't promise you how well behaved she'll be."_

"_I'll be on my guard," responded the King with a wink. _

"_Fair enough." Bryce peeled the purring bundle of soft wool away from his chest. He gave her a stern look, capturing her glossy eyes with his. "On your best behavior, pup," ordered Bryce gently, before offering his daughter to Maric. He stood and carefully passed the suddenly alert and clinging girl into Maric's arms. _

_Maric took the ticklish bundle, holding the girl firmly around her midsection as he did so. He settled her on his lap and pressed his knees firmly against the wooden barrier of Bryce's desk so that she would not tumble backwards. _

_Aurora struggled to look between her father and Maric, her eyes wide and alert like a spring doe. She was just as still too, her hands once more tangled in her hair for comfort as she assessed the situation. Her little mouth had slackened and was forming a moist "o" shape as she considered Maric. _

"_It's all right, pup," comforted Bryce from behind her, and this seemed to relax the little muscles in her body. Her fists dropped from her hair and onto Maric's arms at the sound of her father's voice. They plucked and pulled at the shirt he wore. _

"_Hello, Aurora," said Maric gently, "Hello, little one." _

_The sound of her name drew the girl's attention away from the worn embroidery on the king's shirt and to Maric's face. Round, owl eyes peered at Maric, unsure what to make of him. Her body tensed once more, and it was only when Maric smiled that she relaxed and smiled at him in kind. She allowed herself to be drawn close to Maric's chest and placed a hand on his nose when he moved to touch her face._

_Maric chuckled at this and gently plucked her hand away. He brushed some wispy blonde curls from her forehead. "Bryce," Maric appraised the little girl's face, "she is going to grow into a beautiful young lady." _

"_Just like her mother," replied Bryce proudly, his gaze settling fondly on his daughter. She was suffering Maric's attention with the grace of a cat. Though he could not see it, he guessed that her eyes were half-closed at the attention Maric was paying to her pretty, little ringlets, and drooping evermore closed with each tuck of hair behind her ear. When he stopped, she gave an agitated stomp of her feet. _

_Maric stuck his tongue out at the girl and smiled at the peal of delighted laughter she released. "Are you taking marriage suits yet?" His eyes darted to Bryce, who was shaking his head. _

"_Urien has written to me asking if Aurora could be a potential match to his son Vaughan. The boy is only a few years older, but," Bryce sighed, "I would rather not decide my daughter's future without at least getting to know the boy. More to the point, I would have her make her own decisions. We did not fight for the freedom of our children, only to see them miserable because we did not give it to them." _

_Maric nodded in understanding, looking at Bryce from over the girl's head. "That is a wise decision, Bryce. I am sure she will thank you for it when she's older."_

"_If I did though," Bryce let a thoughtful pause linger in the air, "it would probably be to Rendon's son, Thomas. Not too different a match from the one made between Cailan and Anora. How is the suit between Anora and Cailan anyhow?" Bryce looked at Loghain as he asked the question, and he saw how Loghain's expression turned from thoughtful to distant. _

"_It goes well enough." Loghain shrugged. "They are still young and are no stranger to each other's company. I'd say it goes as planned."_

"_Cailan always looks forward to visiting Anora," Maric shot Loghain a grin, tilting his head to regard his old friend with a smug expression of satisfaction, "I don't know if Anora can say the same of Cailan's visits!"_

_One of Maric's braids slipped over his shoulder and dangled over his cheek and below his chin at the movement of his head. Aurora eyed the long strip of hair that caught the light of the warm fire so splendidly. It hung low enough that she could reach up, grab the end, and bring it to her mouth. _

_Maric didn't even realize that she'd started to eat his hair until he'd turned back several minutes later to look at Bryce and found the Teyrn with his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving with silent laughter. He gave a tug of his head, and met resistance. Looking down, he saw that Aurora was gnawing on the end with some relish. One hand held the braid firmly in place at her mouth, keeping it to her lips as she chewed, while the other had returned to her own hair to twist and tangle in the curls. She looked quite happy. _

_In his surprise, he said the first thing that came to mind, "She's chewing my braids!" It was said in a mixture of horror and amusement, for Maric had never been gnawed upon before by a child. He pushed the child to arm's length and the braid fell easily out of the grasp of Aurora's hands and voracious mouth. Her little feet kicked at his knees as her hands reached for his hair. _

_Aurora cried out in protest and displeasure at this sudden change. She strained and reached for Maric's braid, grumbling and grunting as her little fingers twisted and curled in a futile effort to recapture it. When Maric began to laugh, his easy chuckle floating through the air, it only increased her agitation and confusion. Her arms dropped and she shrieked in unhappiness. She squirmed and wriggled, trying to get away from the king and back to her father. Fat tears welled in her eyes and wound their ways down her cheeks. _

"_Oh!" Maric was startled by the girl's sudden crying, and he shot Bryce an apologetic expression before he returned to placating his daughter. Bryce did not seem angry; instead, he still looked highly amused and did not seem interested in helping Maric in the slightest. "I'm sorry, little one!" the King pleaded, finding no aid forthcoming from her father, "My hair is not very tasty. I am just trying to spare your little tongue!" Maric bounced her a little on her knees, smiling at the baby. It had worked to distract Cailan when he was troubled, but it was not working on Bryce's offspring. _

_Aurora was having none of it. She shut her eyes tightly, opened her mouth, and wailed. _

"_You're useless, Maric," grumbled Loghain, and it was with swift hands that he transferred the girl into his own arms. "Did Cailan never cry as a babe?" At Maric's slight wince and reluctant shrug, Loghain rolled his eyes. He pillowed the crying Aurora's head against his shoulder, and gently rubbed her back. His chin rested lightly on her forehead, and he could feel her little, ragged sobs against the exposed skin of his neck. As Bryce had done earlier, he continued to rub and soothe the girl. Slowly, the wailing gave way to hiccupping, and the hiccupping turned to burbling as the girl chattered something against Loghain's neck. Like tiny mice, he felt her little fingers curling in his hair, though did not feel the tug of her teeth pulling against his own braids. Instead, the curling was rhythmic and repetitive, almost like a cat's kneading. _

"_Softy," teased Maric, watching Loghain handle the child with ease. He felt the pangs of jealousy again at seeing Loghain so familiar with how to comfort and manage young children. It was an unexpected (and novel) talent of his, and that the laconic, pragmatic Teyrn should know anything of children and their moods served to only improve his character. At least in Maric's mind. He envied him sometimes. _

"_If you have any parenting tips, Loghain," Bryce said, thinking the same thoughts as Maric, apparently, "I'm more then receptive to advice. Anora is growing into a bright young woman, I hear. I would not mind of my own daughter turned into such a girl." _

"_I'm afraid I don't have much advice to offer," Loghain replied, giving Bryce a small shrug. "Be consistent with your discipline and set your rules early." He gave a little grunt of surprise when he felt the child begin to wriggle, and so slackened his arms. She pushed against his chest with her little hands, and used the space between his arms and chest to straighten up and steady herself, for she wobbled precariously atop Loghain's thighs. She settled back against Loghain's arms, and Loghain adjusted his hands so that he cupped the back of her head and the small of her back for support. _

_The girl put her hands on Loghain's cheeks. She said something to him in her baby language, a strange mixture of nonsense sounds she was cobbling together from memory, and patted his cheeks fondly as she did so. Her little fingers scratched at his stubble, which caused her to puff out her lips, giggle, and babble at him some more. Expressive little eyes were bright as she chattered and pattered. He blinked, and then she would blink, her little teeth flashing from their gummy homes as smiled at the game they played. _

_Maric smirked at him, having recovered from the trauma of the girl's mood swing. "I think she likes you, Loghain." _

_Bryce chuckled from across his desk. _

_Loghain merely raised an eyebrow at Maric's comment, enduring the attention of the child with a stoic air. He gazed very intently into her large eyes, and watched as she looked back at him. She smiled at him, expecting him to smile back in return, and when he did not, her little lips quavered and she looked to the smiling Maric for comfort. Loghain suddenly puffed out his cheeks and crossed his eyes, catching Aurora by surprise. When she turned her gaze back to him, she squealed, put her hands to her mouth, and warbled something in surprise. Her feet kicked at his thighs and she twisted away, but Loghain held her steady, his hands a firm, comforting presence under the child's arms. _

"_She learned that from her mother," remarked Bryce fondly, noticing the girl's expression. "As did Fergus; his favorite expression, as a child, though I'm hard pressed to ever surprise Fergus these days." _

_Aurora turned a tentative look to Loghain, testing to see if his expression had returned to normal. It had, and she was greeted with the soft, subdued smile that Loghain had given her earlier. She smiled at him, before she let out a large hiccup. Her little body tensed and then released with the expulsion of air in a sleepy, lethargic sag. _

"_Ahhh," Bryce stood, "there it is. Now she's tired." His chair scraped across the floor as he stood, moving around the desk together his daughter from Loghain's arms. "All it took was a little scare."_

_Loghain arranged the little, weary limbs appropriately as Bryce approached, and stood to pass off the sleepy bundle to her father. _

"_Thank you, Loghain," said Bryce with a nod, taking his daughter into his arms. He settled Aurora's drowsy head on his shoulder and held her tightly against his heart. He returned to his seat and lowered himself gingerly to the thick cushion, mindful of his daughter who was on the verge of drifting off to sleep. Bryce was going to miss these moments when his daughter grew up. He worried for Fergus and always wanted the best for him, but there was something different about a daughter. He had never thought of Fergus as fragile or vulnerable but he considered Aurora to be such things. He wanted to protect her, but he did not want to stifle her. _

_With Aurora asleep, Bryce, Maric, and Loghain were given the silence necessary to begin their preliminary drafts of the trade agreement. Yet, it was evident that all three men's attention was not on the task at hand, for each would steal glances at the woolen bundle resting in Bryce's arms. Even in sleep, little Aurora was getting the attention she desired._

* * *

_Gratuitous fluff: a great reprieve from writing about political intrigue and scandal! I loves me some little!Aurora, especially in her little lamb/sheep dress. _

_Thanks go out to Lady Winde for being a wonderful beta, and to Shakespira who helped me keep Aurora's antics age appropriate. Love you two. :)_

_As always, my heartfelt appreciation goes out to the readers, reviewers, and alerters. You guys are great!_


	37. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

They were attacking tomorrow.

The knowledge had come to him as a whisper in his ear. He had been leaving the War Room, and had just made it out into the sunlight and down the steps when he felt hot breath brush against his neck. Andraste's husky, unmistakable voice ghosted down his spine as she spoke to him.

"_Tomorrow. We are ready."_

When he turned to look over his shoulder, to question her, she had already retreated to the darkness of the War Room. Her figure was a slim silhouette next to Serge's shadowy form, and it was almost as though she hadn't moved at all. Still, there was no denying her words; the army was ready, the Grey Wardens were ready, and she was ready. At dawn, they would begin their siege of the palace and either kill Marcus or die in the process before the Chevaliers arrived. There were no other alternatives, and there was no use waiting for reinforcements or hope from a different front. Val Royeaux was on its own to do what it had to salvage the reputation of the Grey Wardens.

Though it was well past midnight, Loghain could not sleep. The upcoming skirmish weighed heavily on his mind, as did the current course of his life. Loghain could claim that he slept better than most men at night, and truth be told, he would not be lying. He was a man who accepted and understood his actions. He could not indulge in "what-ifs" and alternate possibilities. For a man in his line of work, such a thing was not practical. He had regrets, an ocean full of them to be precise, but those he saved for certain times and places. Now was not such a time, but his mind, weary as it was, was unable to stop them. He tossed an arm over his eyes and let out a rough exhale of breath. He squirmed on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position for his back and legs.

Days had begun to blur together for Loghain. It couldn't have been more than five since he'd lost the Warden and taken command of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, but it seemed longer. He suspected it was a mixture of the constant uncertainty and general uselessness that he felt. Loghain had been working with Andraste and Serge, as well as Zevran and Leliana, to devise a proper plan of attack for their assault on the Val Royeaux palace. However, his presence seemed superfluous. Andraste seemed to know everything about anything. All Loghain, and for that matter everyone else, could do was nod and agree.

This was, he surmised, exactly what she wanted (and needed). Andraste _loved _an audience. She loved being the center of attention, and apparently, she loved being _right _most of all. Or so he had overheard Leliana telling Zevran. His original assessment of her from Denerim had been right, though he couldn't fault her battle plans. She knew her way around Val Royeaux, possessed knowledge of structural weak points, secret entrances, and had already predicted how Marcus would respond to five of her seven strategies.

She had been thinking about this a _great _deal, which confirmed Loghain's suspicions that this had been planned in advance. Andraste had been waiting for an opportunity to do this. Serge had said that they had been trying to ferret out Marcus's motives, to not push him too soon lest he went to ground, but there was no doubt in Loghain's mind that this had always been the desired outcome. These Grey Wardens wanted a siege, and Andraste seemed to relish the idea of purging her compound. "Fresh air," she had claimed, "will do us all some good. Let us purge the stink from our homes!"

That being said, Loghain was not convinced that her delay had been planned. He had originally thought it too convenient, but Andraste's story had been…compelling. Talking Darkspawn would seem ludicrous, if not for the fact that the villain she spoke of, the Architect, was someone Loghain had seen. His spindly limbs and warped features had begged Loghain to be reasonable amidst a dark and barren dreamscape. Loghain did not understand what it had meant, and had thought him some warped, perverse demon brought upon by his own guilt. But learning of the creature's desire to make Darkspawn more human, to blur the line between what was right and normal, and what was blighted and sick, Loghain was glad Andraste had not "been reasonable."

He'd never gotten the chance to ask the Warden if she had dreamed the same dreams as he. In fact, he had not talked to her of Grey Warden dreams at all. She had asked him once, shortly after his first night as a Grey Warden, if he had dreamed. Loghain had replied gruffly that yes, he had, and at that she had chuckled. They'd never spoken about it again after that. They hadn't spoken much at all, really. Their time together before the Archdemon had been a haze of constant fighting against Darkspawn, long hours of planning, and then more fighting against Darkspawn. There was no time to form or expand friendships. Everyone had to be happy with what they had.

What Loghain and the Warden had had was a strange relationship based upon their shared histories. They were both nobles. They shared titles. They even shared acquaintances. As a result, they had memories of each other. Loghain's memories were perhaps clearer and more concise, having lived longer and been of an age to remember more of them. At one, Loghain had thought her rather endearing with her little woolen dress and tiny golden curls. At four, she had been amusing with her sing-song voice and grubby fingers. At eight, she had been somewhat tame and insipid, floating in her mother's shadow with gaunt cheeks and a persistent wheeze. At twelve, she had been feisty, running around the courtyard with a sword, chasing her older brother. And at sixteen, she had been a spitfire, tossing wine down the front of Lady Lorna's daughter's dress for slapping her servant during the Landsmeet. "You slap your servant for appearing slovenly," she had taunted, "perhaps I should slap you for being so as well?"

The curious amalgamation of moments made for a curious sense of familiarity. They were not quite strangers, not quite friends. They were not warm; he had never sidled next to her at camp and regaled her with stories. Nor had she done the same for him. But it was civil. And it was practical. He wanted nothing more than to do his duty to Ferelden and Maric. She wanted the same. "I need you to lead my armies," she had told him. "And when I am gone, I need you to lead the Grey Wardens. You will find your duty there." He'd brushed the comments off until that final night in Redcliffe. He hadn't understood until then. He thought she'd been planning for a worst-case scenario, not the _best-_case scenario. He certainly didn't think he had it in him to lead to glory an ancient order that he had fought against, but she thought he did, and where the girl was concerned, that was all that mattered to her.

Never in a thousand lifetimes would he have expected to be Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, and a key contributor in a potential Grey Warden coup d'état. He had always fought the notion of leadership, and when the girl was in charge, he'd refused to let her stand in his shadow. He could offer her advice and wisdom, but he would not force her to follow when she should lead. It had been good when she'd disagreed with him; it meant she had a head on her shoulders and was not afraid to take her own counsel.

Of course, she made mistakes. _Had _made mistakes. She couldn't make mistakes anymore, because she was dead. That in itself was a mistake. She'd made a tactical error in dropping her guard while in a vicious foreign land and had paid the ultimate price. None of the Empress's vaulted favor and legendary tennis serves could bring her back now. In his frustration, he threw his arm from his eyes and let his fist strike the mattress at his side.

Counting the cracks on his ceiling, Loghain wondered how he would broach the subject of the Warden's untimely death to Fergus Cousland, and the rest of Ferelden. If the King found out what had happened in Val Royeaux, would he retract Amaranthine from the Grey Wardens because they were too much of a political threat? Or would Eamon make the decision? Would Fergus Cousland push for Amaranthine to be given to the Couslands again because the Grey Wardens now owed him a blood debt?

One thing that Loghain _was_ certain of was that that no matter what he said, he would ultimately take the blame for the Warden's death.

_Obviously, _it was his fault.

Scheming Loghain had always sought power, and he would do anything, even murder a young woman to get it.

He could hear the reasons that held him culpable already. He had not protected her. He had not pushed her to be more cautious. He had not defended her properly. He had not saved her from her own pride and vanity. If she'd died of poison in her food, no doubt they'd blame him for not tasting it before she did. It made his head spin, and he realized why he didn't often think of the gossips in Denerim.

Returning home to give the news of the Hero of Ferelden's death was not something he was looking forward to. The Princeling would take great joy in lording it over him. Fergus Cousland would probably batter down the gates of Vigil's Keep to get at him. He could already hear the accusations and the curses, as if Loghain could have _done _something. Who did it insult more? The Warden had been a full grown woman and a hero. She had been an excellent fighter, and more than capable of making her own decisions. He had _not _been her keeper. He had _not _been her father, to scold and discipline her when she did something wrong. He had been her Second. Perhaps she would have taken his advice, perhaps she wouldn't have, but it had been her prerogative. She hadn't needed a guardian, hadn't needed the protection. If Loghain had assumed the role everyone expected of him, he would have undermined her authority as Warden Commander of Ferelden, and then all of their accusations about his power-hungry nature would be right.

He was damned, utterly damned, no matter what he did.

He hoped that Fergus, at least, would be reasonable and approach the matter of his "involvement" in her death in the same way that he had approached Loghain's involvement in the massacre at Castle Cousland. He had been lucky that the Warden had focused her anger, and her brother's anger, on Rendon Howe and his family. Howe had been the schemer, the one coveting their father's treasures. He acted on no one's directions save his own. Yet, by all rights, they could blame Loghain for the massacre of their family. He had given Howe the opportunity to act. He was guilty of the Cousland massacre by negligence.

"_Your Grace," Howe had said, "I do not wish to trouble you overly much, since I know that you are busy planning for Cailan's 'glorious' campaign against the Darkspawn, but I have…fears."_

_Loghain had raised an eyebrow, asking for the Arl of Amaranthine to continue, which he did with the wringing of his hands and the knotting of his brows. _

"_Word has reached Amaranthine that Cailan plans to invite Orlais to help us at Ostagar. Is this true?"_

"_It is." _

_Howe had sucked in his breath sharply through his teeth, his long, narrow face tightening into a sour expression. "After all we have fought for, he wants to let them back in. Oh, but these are dark times, Your Grace." _

"_I understand your concern," Loghain had replied coolly, watching Howe grit his teeth and wring his hands in front of him in frustration. Loghain's fears were the same: if Orlesians came to Ferelden, they would never leave it. Loghain had taken the matter well into hand, however. _

"_I was wondering if you knew if the Grey Wardens of Orlais and the Empress's Chevaliers were going to come to our assistance by foot or by sea?" _

"_They aren't going to come at all." Stern letters and a promise of slaughter followed Cailan's delightfully charming missive. _

"_Oh, that is very good, Your Grace. Because if they came by sea, I am not sure that the northern territories would be able to say no to them. You see," Howe had the decency to look embarrassed, "Bryce Cousland has been…entertaining gifts from Orlais."_

"_What sort of gifts?" Loghain had asked, curious despite himself. _

"_Horses. Perfume. Fine silks. Weapons." Howe's lip had curled, though he looked to be trying to control its quiver of disgust. "They send him ships full of dresses and shoes for his wife. He even has an Orlesian tutor for his children. They are near fluent, or they were the last time I visited. He is very proud of the speed at which they picked up the language."_

"_And why are you telling me this?" _

"_Because," Howe's voice had dropped low and was no louder than a whisper. He had come close to where Loghain was standing at his desk, licking his lips anxiously as he leaned in, "I fear Orlais will come to Ferelden through the Couslands. Bryce is a strategic weak point."_

"_Explain." _

"_If Orlais should choose to defy our sovereignty and come with an armada, I have no doubt that their troops would find succor with Bryce Cousland." Howe's eyes had been bright in the dim light of Loghain's study. "Make no mistake, I do not doubt Bryce's loyalty to Ferelden, I only believe that his love for his family is stronger than his love for his country. By making friends in the Orlesian palace and thereby insinuating himself within the Orlesian court, I believe he realized that the Orlesian military is much stronger than our own." _

"_You are suggesting that he is aware of an attack?" _

"_No, Your Grace, I merely suggest that he is being…cautious. If Orlais should come visit, either by Cailan's invitation or their own gall, Bryce hopes that his family and his territory will be spared because of their sympathetic…and I hate to say it, sycophantic, nature. Bryce's father fought against the Orlesians, and," Rendon had allowed a pregnant, knowing pause to fall between them, "We all saw what happened to him. I have no doubt that Bryce is trying to stop history from repeating itself by…pandering to the Orlesians. He would probably harbor any Orlesian soldiers that came from the sea or the King's Road as a gesture of goodwill, and consequently, be their foothold within Ferelden." _

"_And what do you expect me to do, Rendon? There is little more here than your suppositions." Loghain had shaken his head. "And even if they are true, I don't have troops to spare to secure the northern ports." It pained Loghain to think of all the men and women Cailan had requisitioned for a grand and glorious assault on the darkspawn. The idea of an Orlesian armada sailing from Val Royeaux to the coasts of Highever or the ports at Amaranthine and West Hill, or even Port Fenn, unnerved him. Ferelden's navy was not particularly large, growth having been halted when Maric was lost at sea, and would likely not be sufficient enough to crush an invasion fleet on the open water. If the Fereldan fleet failed to stop the Orlesian ships, then they could unload an untold number of Chevaliers and troops in the north, and then sail straight to Denerim. They could capture the capital from both land and sea. _

_And if Bryce's "caution" would allow that to happen…_

"_I understand, Your Grace." Howe had bowed his head, "And I would not ask for you to divert your troops to assist us. Would you allow me to speak to Bryce on your behalf, perhaps? We could work out a new arrangement and leave men behind to protect the shores and ports from Orlesian ships. Bryce can be prudent when he wishes to be, I should be able to make him see reason..."_

"_How many men do you plan to leave behind?" _

"_As many as it takes, Your Grace." _

The way Rendon had looked at him, it was clear that he should not be expecting any men. _Why _he shouldn't be expecting them was up to Rendon, though he could guess. And he had guessed. If Rendon saw Bryce as a threat, Rendon would act. Whatever motivations that had been driving Howe were not of Loghain's concern. He'd had a battle to plan, and a country to save from Darkspawn and Cailan's glorious ambitions. If Howe could keep the north safe from invasion, even an illusory one, then Loghain had no qualms letting him do what was needed and dealing with the consequences later. Ultimately though, Howe had been the villain when it had mattered. Perhaps Marcus, or the Grey Wardens, would be seen in the same light.

Floorboards creaked outside Loghain's door, and he heard the chattering of Grey Wardens beyond it. His fellows were retreating to their rooms, likely having just finished their time stationed atop the palace-facing gate. They would try and get some sleep before the assault, and would likely be more successful at it than Loghain.

The Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens sighed and rolled onto his side, struggling against his hard and lumpy bed. Dane was nestled on a couch by one of the windows. His dark eyes were closed shut in sleep, though he cracked one open when he heard the rustling of covers. He whined in the dark.

"Sorry," Loghain apologized, noticing the dog's eyes. "I did not mean to wake you."

Dane's eyes closed once more, mollified by Loghain's apology. He let out a small huff of displeasure before wriggling himself deeper into the couch. "Go to sleep," his little rumble of displeasure said. "Or get up."

Loghain opted to stay in his bed. There was nothing for him to do in this room, and rest was the most prudent course of action. The only time Loghain returned to his room was to sleep. He did not like to linger overly much there, since he was acutely aware of the silence down the hall. It might have been different if his room was the one closer to the stairs. But it wasn't. Every day he had to walk past an empty room, and doing it was as hard as removing chairs from the war table when commanders, lieutenants, and trusted generals died.

Each morning as he and Dane made their way to the War Room, Dane would stop and scratch a paw on the wood of the door as they passed, and at first Loghain had thought that he did it because he expected his mistress to be inside. However, Dane had not lingered at the door. It was only one scratch, and then he was back to Loghain's side. What he had realized was that it wasn't that Dane was waiting for the girl to come home; he was paying his respects. He had seen soldiers visit the Chantry and touch the marble Andraste's feet with reverent fingers before battle to gain her favor. He had seen loyal vassals kiss their lords' crests for good luck. Before he had left for Ostagar, Loghain had visited Maric and Rowan's memorial, and asked them for the strength to do what was appropriate. What Dane was doing was no different.

Dane's curious habit turned into Loghain's routine. Before man and mabari started their day, and before they finished it, they would touch hand and paw to the worn wood. No words needed to be spoken.

Loghain flipped onto his back and put his hands over his face. "Oh, but would the morning come already?"

Dane answered back with a growl and a large sigh of his own, which made Loghain chuckle despite himself. Even before the Warden's untimely end, the Mabari had been an ever present companion for Loghain. He loved the dog. He found him honest, happy, intelligent, and a link to his otherwise forgotten past. Loghain could see Adalla in the dog's face, and it brought him some measure of comfort. It also made him hate Orlais more than he thought was possible. Orlais had much to answer for, and he was looking forward to exacting his retribution tomorrow.

8-8-8

The mage lights that Serge had conjured in the War Room were beginning to fade. The little orbs of yellow and blue light that danced along the unlit candlesticks were dwindling down into faint starlight, and cast the room in deep, dark shadows.

Andraste Caron stood in the center of the War Room, resting both her hands on the edge of the large table that held the War Room's map. Across the table, standing rather demurely with her back to the open door, was Leliana. The bard's red hair looked brown in the midnight gloom, as did the hair of the self-appointed Warden Commander of Val Royeaux. Both women were looking at each other across the divide, and were speaking Orlesian in soft, whispered tones.

Andraste's fingers drummed on the table as she considered something Leliana said. Andraste was not very concerned with Leliana's descriptions of the palace's interior, and so was only half-listening to the younger woman's suggestions and comments. Her mind was dancing across the roof tops of Val Royeaux, stalking alleys, and ducking through sewer grates. She was in mental pursuit of someone, and was trying to plot their movements. At a pause in Leliana's reporting, Andraste raised a hand. "Thank you, Leliana."

"I have more information, if you want it," offered the bard. "I know a great deal about the palace."

"You know a great many things about Val Royeaux, yes? Other than the palace?"

"Well…yes." Leliana's head bobbed, sending the small braids at her temples bouncing. "I do."

"I need that expertise." Andraste straightened, pulling her leather jerkin down over her hips as she did so. She smoothed her gloved hands down her sides, the leather of her gauntlets scraping ominously against the armor she wore. "I need it right now, actually."

"Oh?"

"I want you to find someone for me."

Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"A missing Grey Warden. His name is Vidar, Vidar of Hossberg, and I know he is hiding somewhere within Val Royeaux."

Leliana raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the Warden Commander's request. "Val Royeaux is a very large city…you want me to find a man I have never seen before and in the dark?"

"That is what bards do, yes? You do as your client asks?" There was little room to argue in Andraste's tone. "I am asking you to find a man who is greatly vested in the outcome of the assault on the palace. That should be information enough for you to determine where he is."

"Sounds delightful. I will do as you ask," replied Leliana, "but you will need to give me more information than that. I have his name, but what does he look like? Does he have any scars? Any distinguishing features? What color is his hair? What clothing does he wear?"

Andraste swept one arm down her body. "He will be dressed like me. This is a standard issue set of armor amongst the Grey Wardens. He will be wearing it. He will also be carrying a long bow, not unlike the one you have strapped to your back," Andraste's eyes darted to the whitewood bow that peaked over Leliana's shoulder, "but it will be red. It is a bow of dragonthorn, and it is quite distinct. If he finds you before you find him, and I have no doubt that he might, he will use it against you."

"I expected as much. Men in hiding often do not want to be found."

"Indeed. This man especially. What else can I tell you to help you," Andraste's lips puckered in thought, and there was a brief flash of teeth as she worried on her lower lip. "Ah, yes." She looked at Leliana, her gaze sly. "I told you of the wrapping, but not of the present. Tell me, did you get a _good _look at Marcus? Do you remember his face?"

"I think so," Leliana nodded, "I could distinguish that rodent easily."

"Good." Andraste's eyes pinned Leliana to the floor, their intensity bewitching in the gloom. She took careful, measured steps towards her. One gloved finger dragged along the edge of the table as she walked. "Because the man you hunt is not so different in looks. Vidar is very similar in appearance to Marcus. Vidar is younger, with fairer hair and darker eyes, but the rest of the characteristics they share. Nose, chin, forehead. Similarly striking."

"I see. I think then that I can find him then. It is not much to go on, but if his resemblance is as similar as you claim, then it shouldn't be too difficult. Are you sure you would not," Leliana's brow furrowed, "prefer my assistance in breaching the castle though?"

Andraste shook her head. "No. We are not being subtle in our breach. We will tear the stones from the walls to make our point heard."

"Very well. When do you wish me to begin?"

"Right now," Andraste smirked.

"Oh," Leliana echoed the smile. "I will just get some supplies and be on my way. Before I go though, what exactly do you want me to do with Vidar once I've found him?"

"Bring him here. Be creative."

"I…see. I will do my best."

"There's a good, lass. Enjoy the hunt, because Vidar will!" Andraste gave her a fond pat on the shoulder and a wink before dismissing her. Once Leliana had disappeared into the night, she rubbed at her eyes with gloved fingers, and gave a low chuckle when she felt the small push of a familiar presence at the back of her mind. "It is not polite to eavesdrop, Serge."

"Well, if you should choose to hold conversations in the middle of the open, what do you expect?" the blood mage responded, stepping from the shadowy hallway that led to the Grey Warden offices and into the circular room where Andraste stood. He saw her silhouette in front of the open doors, a striking black figure amidst a sea of stars and grey stone. She was leaning heavily against the door frame, one arm extended to bear her weight while the other hung limply at her side. He crossed towards her, and placed a gentle hand on the small of her back. "But you have my apologies for listening and earning your displeasure."

"Ah, Serge, you know that I have no secrets from you." Andraste looked at her Second from over her shoulder, and gave him a tired smile. "I could not keep them even if I tried. You and your tricky blood magic."

"I would like to think," Serge replied, "that it is not my blood magic that makes you confide in me. Though I can tell," and he let his hand trail up from the small of her back to just below her hair line, "that someone is thinking a little too hard for their own good."

"I don't like it when you read my blood."

"No one does." He chuckled, the sound coming out in a long, low purr. "But I cannot help what I am and what I can do."

Andraste grumbled at that and straightened, letting Serge's hand fall away. "I hate waiting, having to hold this deep breath before the plunge."

"And how do you think Marcus feels?" asked Serge. "It is his calm before the storm too, and by all rights, _you _are the storm."

"No," she shook her head, sending her red braid swinging between her shoulder blades like a pendulum, "the Chevaliers are the storm. We are merely a gust of wind to rustle the leaves." She stepped out into the mild evening air, her boots scraping along the stones as she skipped down the stairs.

Serge was behind her, his robes whispering in his wake. "If need be," Serge said quietly, "I can always 'convince' our friends within the barracks to form a wall of bodies between their blades and us."

Andraste stilled when Serge's fingers tugged playfully on her braid.

"It would not be," he continued quietly, "so difficult to do. It would buy us time, should we need it."

"And we probably will," she replied, "if our friends do not get their troops together soon. I had hoped that the siege equipment would already be in place, and yet, they haven't even opened their gates. I'll assemble it for them, if I must."

"Patience, Warden Commander," chastised the blood mage, "I was there this morning, and things are underway as they should be. No doubt that when we awake tomorrow, everything will be as you commanded."

"You know," Andraste peered at him from over a pauldron, distracting Serge from the change of topic with the lowering of her eyelashes, "you sound so different speaking in Orlesian. It is such a…" She seemed at a loss for words. "Such a welcoming, thing. I am glad to be home. It was very lonely in Ferelden, Serge." She sent him a cautious smile, which he quickly returned.

He dropped his hold on her braid and moved to her side, tucking himself against her. His forehead was a hair's breadth away from hers. They were close enough to be intimate, but to onlookers, it appeared that they were merely deep in conversation. Their bodies did not touch, and the only physical sensation that passed between them was the soft and steady puffing of the other's hot breath across their cheeks. "It was also lonely," Serge said in a low voice, "in Orlais."

"Do you think that is how Warden Commander Loghain feels?" Her green eyes were at a level with his nose, and she playfully brushed her eyelashes against it. "Lonely?"

"I couldn't believe otherwise. He looks as though all the stars have gone from his sky."

"He was close with the Cousland girl?"

Serge nodded.

"Sad," said Andraste, and Serge didn't need to prompt her to know what the faraway look in her eyes meant.

8-8-8

From his vantage point, Vidar could see into the courtyard of the palace. He was high enough to see all he needed to see, yet far enough away to avoid being detected. He could not hear what the Grey Wardens and Antivan Crows below him were saying, but he had been watching their shifts, and their shift changes, since sunset and he was confident that he knew when they would next be on duty again.

A distant glint on a rooftop caught his attention. Vidar had been at this perch before, and had never seen any glinting previously. This anomaly spelled danger, and the tracker slowly lowered himself so that he rested flush against one of the roof's large support beams. The glinting was intermittent, a brief flash in the moonlight before it disappeared.

He guessed it was a buckle that was catching the moon's light and then being obscured again as its owner moved around the rooftops. Cloth or leather would obscure the metal clasp for a few brief moments, trapping it against limb or joint, before releasing it back into the air once more. Yes, that was exactly what the pattern looked like. The dark-glint-dark-glint had the definite rhythm of one who was climbing. The climber definitely knew what they were doing, however, for all Vidar could see was the glinting. He could make out neither form nor figure against the black body of the buildings.

It was not a Crow, he knew that much. Crows dulled their metallic clasps with paint. They spent enough time wandering the rooftops of Antiva to know the folly of reflective pieces. All it took was one well-aimed arrow after a little, unintended flicker of light to put a stop to a stealthy assassin. In this case, it would only take one arrow to stop an Antivan Crow, misguided peasant, or queer anomaly too.

Vidar drew his bow over his shoulder, and gently raised himself to a kneeling position. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, and trained it on the last point he saw the flashing. He waited, his arrow ready to be loosed once he had his target. And there he saw it. He released the arrow, letting it fly straight and true to its mark, just slightly ahead of the flickering light's last position. There was no more glinting and glimmering after that, though as Vidar watched the Grey Wardens in the Val Royeaux palace, he kept one eye trained on the rooftops.

Leliana, on the other hand, kept her eyes trained solely on the spot where the arrow had been launched from. Though the bard had a strong love for shoes, she also had a strong love for mirrors. Not only did they allow her to gaze at her lovely reflection, but they were also perfect diversions. This particular mirror, with its long, tapered handle and tiny face, was very useful in her line of work. As she climbed, she had held it above her head, flipping its face out to the moon for a few moments, before flipping it back to the side of the building she was scaling. It was bait, something to catch the attention of onlookers and force them to take action. It forced them to reveal themselves, while keeping Leliana hidden and protected. Arrows and bolts would always fall ahead of the mirror's last flash, and it did not take Leliana much to discern where the arrow had come from.

She stuffed the mirror into a small pouch at her hip, and made her way cautiously over the rooftops, closing in on the perch where she guessed her quarry was resting. She moved slowly, methodically, picking her way through the city as one might cautiously step over messes or cracks. Her light and nimble legs carried her over the roofs and awnings. Leliana guessed herself fortunate that she found Vidar as soon as she did. It would be dawn soon, and the thick, clinging gloom of the evening would soon be burnt away. She could hear the stirrings of the city already in the whistling and the trumpeting of the army barracks as the men inside prepared for their long, grueling day.

As time passed and the sky began to pale, the stirring in the barracks became louder. She heard the groaning of gates as they opened, and the thick, heavy sound of wooden wheels against cobblestones. Being perched as she was behind a chimney, she could not get a good luck at its source, but she imagined that it must have been the battering ram that Andraste had been waxing on about. Leliana thought that the woman was in the wrong type of work; she was _very _dramatic. She loved exaggeration, hand waving, and speeches.

A movement on the rooftops from the corner of her eye signaled the movement of Vidar. Likely, he had caught a glimpse of the large battalion of soldiers and Grey Wardens that were making their way to the palace. He was either leaving to take refuge elsewhere, or finding a better vantage point out of sight of the Grey Wardens.

Leliana crouched low and watched as Vidar carefully plucked his way across the rooftops of the city, seemingly walking in midair from one roof to another. She saw the vague outline of a thin, narrow line stretching out between the rooftops ahead of her, and recognized it as a rope walkway. The thick cords of rope served as an inconspicuous aerial road, allowing a dexterous, sure-footed individual to avoid traffic and detection.

Being such an individual, Leliana waited until Vidar had passed behind an obstruction before dashing to the next rooftop using the rope bridge. Her feet danced over the coiled strands, and she propelled herself forward with each little jolt of the rope below her. It was fun. She had missed doing this. Running across the uneven terrain of a city's skyline was always exhilarating, and made her feel like a bird. The slip and slide of loose shingles or thatching below her boots gave an added sense of danger, as one wrong step meant she could fall to her death.

From one roof to another she flew, skipping along shingle and hemp. Behind her, the sounds of groaning wood and yielding stone rose into the morning air. Cries and shouts of heaving men soon swallowed up the noise, and all the city came alive with angry wailing and thunderous pounding. Looking down, Leliana could see men and women racing through the alleyways, scrambling to get to their destinations as quick as possible. She even saw a few people open their doors, step out, take stock of the commotion, and promptly return indoors.

With the tumult at the palace, the immediate area, perhaps even the entire city, was going to become lawless. In the confusion and chaos of attack, and the otherwise occupied minds of the garrison, thieves and cutpurses would be on the loose. The best course of action for most was to stay tightly locked in their homes and out of the way of opportunistic marauders. Those with shops could risk their lives defending their wares, or pray that their goods were not as enticing as their neighbors.'

Leliana's toe caught on the edge of a loose shingle, and sent her tumbling face forward onto the roof with a loud crash. Vidar halted, having heard the crash. She had fallen between the rhythmic pounding of the battering ram, and so was an irregular sound to Vidar's perceptive ears. He turned and looked across the roofscapes at her, and she, in the full light of the morning sun, stared back.

She had barely enough time to roll to her side and get on her feet when an arrow whizzed through the air towards her. It stuck with a dull sound into the shingles, and Leliana pulled her own bow free. She sent two arrows after Vidar, who was now dashing over the roofs away from her to put distance between them. Leliana guessed he would try and put enough space between them before dropping to the alleys below to evade her. If she could get an arrow into his leg, she could slow him considerably and do as Andraste ordered.

As it was, Vidar evaded both arrows and nearly gave Leliana the slip. Unfortunately, he also was not immune to the irregular terrain of the Orlesian rooftops. Having jumped onto his safe house, recognizing it by the deep groove he had whittled into the support beam's surface, he skidded along the decorative shingles. They fell to the floor, cracking and splintering at the impact, and revealed the thick wooden beams of the roof's substructure. The heel of his boot caught against one of the beams, and he tumbled backwards. He landed with a loud crash and slipped along the slanted edge of the roof. His hands scrabbled to find purchase, stripping more shingles as he slipped. He caught the edge of the roof with one hand, and then let himself drop the two stories to the alley.

If this woman wanted a hunt, Vidar would give her a hunt.

He just hoped he could lose her in time.

8-8-8

A loud thump and shake drew the Warden out of sleep, and the dust and debris falling from the ceiling caused her to cough. Her chest and stomach contracted painfully as her lungs heaved, and it was all she could do not to groan at the ache in her side. She put a hand to her side, covering the dressing with a rough palm. Her mind was catching up with itself…what was the last thing she remembered?

Vidar had been talking. He had called her a sheep. And then there was nothing. She had slipped off into a thick fog of dreamless sleep.

"Vidar?" she croaked. Her throat was thick and dry from lack of use. She waited for a snide reply, for the shuffling of feet or the rustling of clothing, but there was nothing. As one might fluff pillows or air linens and catch the scent of a long departed mother's perfume, so too did the Warden's senses catch a familiar presence. Her taint, shared with other Grey Wardens and Darkspawn, allowed her to sense both when they were in relative proximity to her. The tugging on her mind that signaled a brother or sister Grey Warden was growing weaker and more distant. Whether it was Vidar, or Loghain, or any of the others in the Grey Warden compound, she couldn't guess. All she knew was that whoever owned the consciousness was moving away from her, and she had no way of knowing when or if they'd be back.

The Warden decided to give her head a few minutes to clear before she decided to move around. She sprawled out on the small bed, and the minutes turned into hours as she returned once more to sleep. Whatever it was that Vidar had been giving her, it had a lingering after effect. Having become a light sleeper, the Warden could be roused from slumber and be ready for battle within a few moments. Here though, she passed in and out of sleep, her body too stiff and lethargic to move more than a few inches at a time. She battled the haze for several hours before she grit her teeth and heaved herself forward, swinging her legs over the side of the bed in a last ditch effort to remain conscious.

She scrubbed her face with a hand, plucking the sleep from her eyes and the cough from her mouth. Her body felt less cold, though that was not saying much since she was still naked from the waist up. That little fact decided her first course of action: shirt.

On very careful legs, mindful not to make too much noise against the floorboards, the Warden staggered from chest to armoire, searching for something to cover her nudity. In the armoire she found a dirty, bloodstained shirt that looked identical to the shirt Vidar had been wearing the first night she awoke in this place. She also found the long strip of cloth that served as her breast binding. She carefully rolled herself into it, layering it over the poultice and bandage that Vidar had dressed her wound with. The skin at the sight of the slice was warm and tingling, a sensation that the Warden associated with Wynne's spells. Tingling was good.

With the binding in place, she slipped the shirt over her head. Unsure of how much time she would have before Vidar would return, the Warden cut short her examination of the things in Vidar's room. She only gave the vials in the chest a cursory glance, not recognizing the names of the leaves and twigs within them. Nothing else in the room proved to be of any significant value, since the only other objects of note were the bed and the chamber pot. If Vidar had secret hiding places, and he seemed to be the type of man who would, the Warden could not guess where to look. None of the floorboards appeared conspicuous, and she was not about to knock on the walls.

Instead, she opted for a careful descent down the stairs into what she guessed was his kitchen and dining area. Like his bedroom, the downstairs living space was decorated sparsely and in drab colors. There was nothing in the room to even remotely suggest that Vidar lived there. The Warden had been expecting mounted animal heads or skins to be draped from the walls, but instead, the walls lay beige and barren, and the floorboards were dusty. Furniture was as sparse as the decorations, and consisted only of a small dining table, some chairs, a stool, and then another long table pressed against the wall by the hearth.

She found the remnants of her shirt and corset on the table near the hearth, having been sliced and stripped to shreds. Mercifully, Vidar had not done anything to her boots and socks, and it was with great joy that the Warden slipped her feet into both. Going barefoot seemed unnatural, and she was glad to feel the thick socks beneath her toes.

There was a half-eaten crust of bread on a plate next to her ruined clothing, and the Warden devoured it with relish. The bread was stale, but the crunch of the crust below her teeth was the sweetest sound the Warden had heard. Taste was nothing compared to the sensation of food rushing into an empty stomach. She licked every crumb from her lips and fingertips.

The ground floor's little cooking hearth was cold, and appeared to have not been used recently. The ash and soot in the fireplace looked old. In a corner of the room was a sack of some sort of meal, and there was a pail of water on a small stand beside it. The Warden dipped a finger into it and brought it to her lips to test its safety. Tasting nothing out of the ordinary, she cupped her hands and dipped them into the pail. She drank deeply of the water, her eyes half-lidded at the blissful feel of it on her tongue. A few handfuls of water were not enough to slake her thirst, but she felt much better.

Turning back to the room, the Warden wondered what to do with herself. She could stay, and she could wait for Vidar to come back. Vidar seemed to know what was going on, and likely had answers. However, he had drugged her, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't do so again. He also wouldn't divulge his secrets if she beat him to a bloody pulp like she was considering doing. Grateful as she was for him saving her, she can't say she liked what she had woken up to.

She could also leave. Leaving seemed like a really good choice, because she wanted to escape in the most desperate way. However, there was the simple matter that Marcus's men were probably outside, which meant that she was safer indoors. Still, that wasn't saying much, since Vidar was dangerous _and _a wildcard. At least if she was out on the streets she'd be slain, rather than drugged and dragged away. She had no weapon, save for the knife that had been used to shred her clothes to tatters, and this she wrapped in scraps of the corset she had been wearing before stuffing it into her boot. Though her boot dagger was missing, the knife was too big to fit into its sheath.

The Warden considered her two options. In both situations, she was in danger. However, if she stayed with Vidar, her fate was less certain. She knew exactly what she was up against outside (or at least she thought she did). Though she might not be able to control what happened if she left Vidar's home, she would at least be spared someone's obvious machinations. And if it was one thing that the Warden hated, it was being manipulated. She had been a pawn from Grey Warden birth to seeming death, and now was the time to change that.

She crossed to the door, flipped open the latches that kept it locked, and gave a confident tug. The door creaked open, and the rancid air of Val Royeaux rushed over her features. It was glorious; the stench of sewage, piss, rotten meat, and fear smelt like freedom.

Shutting the door behind her, the Warden stepped out into the small street. The buildings here were close together, and the width of the street would only allow two men to walk abreast. The light above her was obscured by the overhang of the roofs, though looking up, she could see a bright blue sky that was reminiscent of midday. The Warden tucked herself against a wall, and made her way cautiously to the end of the narrow street. She took stock of the larger road that the street opened up to, noticing just how empty it was.

She had expected a bustle of activity, but the street was surprisingly quiet, as was the city. The constant hum and drone of busy people had been replaced by the wailing of the wind and the shouting of men. She turned her eyes to the sky once more, craning her neck to find the spires of the palace or the chantry. The palace was looming from the opposite end of the street she had walked down, and the Warden made her way quickly in its direction. She could navigate the city if she had at least one landmark. Knowing where the palace was, she also knew the relative location of the Grey Warden compound. She would return there and find Loghain, and together, they would confront Serge.

From alley to alley and street to street, the Warden made her way cautiously through the city. She moved ever in the direction of the palace, but was careful not to linger too long in the open. Her eyes darted left, right, and up, wary of Antivan Crows, and she kept her mind open to catch the little blurs of consciousness that signaled nearby Grey Wardens.

Closing in on the palace, the Warden began to feel a buzzing at the edges of her mind. Whenever there was a group of Darkspawn, or Grey Wardens, the Warden felt the hornet's nest in her mind spring to life. Darkspawn had songs that were red, yellow, and angry. Grey Wardens had songs that were white, grey, and very pale green. The presence of brothers and sisters of the taint sounded like the breaking of waves on the shore. It was a quiet, pleasant droning that was easy to ignore.

This buzzing could not be ignored, but it did not irritate and make her clench her jaw in the way that that Darkspawn's might. There was some discord in the sound, a disjointed humming that was jarring to listen to. The peace had been fragmented, and her blood ached at the distress of her fellow Grey Wardens. Something told the Warden that she would be lending her own voice to this cacophony soon enough.

Mixed with the sound in her head were the cries of battle. She could hear the clash of steel and the calls of men floating above the high walls. The roaring of fire and the heavy gusting of wind also carried across the air, as did the smell of magic. _Something bad _was happening in the palace. Loghain _must _have survived, which meant that Serge must know what Marcus was up to. Had the Grey Wardens launched an assault?

Finding an empty Grey Warden compound, it seemed that they _had. _

"Maker's breath," the Warden whispered, noticing just how _lifeless _the place was. No Wardens were in the training grounds, the shops were all closed, all the doors were locked, and there was not even the whisper of a voice on the wind. The Grey Griffon's sign creaked in the quiet air, mixing with the Warden's shuffling footsteps as she darted from building to building. The only sign of life was the Warden. If there was anyone else within the compound, they were keeping inside their homes, or had evacuated elsewhere. She assumed it was the former; surely, there was no reason for the Grey Warden families to leave?

Coming to the residence that the Warden and Loghain called home, the Warden put a hand to the door handle. The door was locked, but Coralie had mentioned that she always kept a spare key in the earth of one of the flower pots that rested on the common room's window box. The Warden dug her hand into the earth, feeling around for the edges of the key. Her fingernails, chipped and dirty, scrabbled against a metallic outline. She snapped a nail in the process of procuring the little thing, and blew the dirt off the key before slipping it into the door. She returned the key to where she found it, and patted down the soil and rearranged the flowers before entering.

The common room was dark and cold, but not empty. There in a large chair by the fireplace was Coralie's daughter and only child, who the Warden recognized as Mara.

"Mara?" the Warden whispered, shutting the door behind her.

Mara turned weary eyes to the Warden. The girl was not older than fourteen, but she had already taken on a world-worn look. She walked with an apathetic gait, and was prone to slouching. She was actually quite a pretty girl, with lovely black hair and dark eyes ringed with sinfully long eyelashes. "Oh. It's you," the girl replied back in her accentless common. She was also remarkably bright, knowing four languages fluently. "Ma said you'd gone missing."

"Well, I have returned."

"I can see that. Are you going to join the other Grey Wardens?"

"I plan on it," replied the Warden, "I just need my weapons and my armor. I've come back for them. I don't have my key with me though…"

"I have the keys." Mara reached down to her belt and pulled out the ring of iron keys that opened all the doors in the building. "Here."

The Warden crossed to the girl's side, and then slowly lowered herself to a knee so that she could better look at her. "This place is empty, Mara. Why are you still here?" She took the keys from the girl's hands.

"I'm waiting. Not too long though, because I don't want to be here when the Chevaliers come."

"Chevaliers?" The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Why would you think they'd come?"

"Because the Empress is in danger, and they think the Grey Wardens are behind it. They'll come here first, and slaughter everyone they find, and then they'll go to the palace, and kill all the Grey Wardens who deserted."

The Warden rubbed her forehead. "I think I've missed quite a bit."

"Ma didn't tell me anything, but I overheard some of the other Wardens talking. They said that Marcus had summoned all his supporters to the palace. Andraste called them deserters, and she plans to kill them. She isn't very subtle."

"Andraste s back? When did she get here?"

Mara shrugged. "Awhile ago. I'm not sure. I haven't really been paying attention."

"I see. Where is everyone else, then, if all the Grey Wardens are at the palace?"

"They left," replied Mara in a bored tone, "they didn't want the Chevaliers to catch them, so they went elsewhere in the city this morning."

"Wouldn't they notice you were left behind?"

"No. Ma was busy getting into her armor and left early with the other Grey Wardens. It was easy to hide from everyone else as they left. Don't have a Da, and it was easy to avoid Irmae. She's Haren's wife."

The names meant nothing to her, but the girl's motivation did. The Warden's eyes narrowed. "All right, Mara, be honest with me. The Chevaliers are coming and intend to kill everyone, and you stayed behind?"

"Yes."

"You intend to die?"

"No. I intend to run away."

"_Why?_"

"Because I _hate _it."

"Hate what?"

"_This._" Mara extended her hands and mumbled something under her breath, and soon blue fire was trailing along the sleeves of her dress.

"Magic. You're a _mage._" The Warden couldn't help her surprised laughter, and she settled back on her haunches. "That's wonderful, Mara."

"No, it isn't. I _hate _it. No one knows; no one is supposed to know. But you can know, since you're the last one I'm going to talk to anyway."

"Why do you hate your magic?"

"It hurts me when I don't use it, and when I do use it, I can barely control it, and I don't want to go to the chantry and live like some _slave _always watched by the templars. It sounds _awful. _ But now that everyone is gone, I can leave. I can be an apostate in the woods somewhere and use my magic and not be bothered by anyone."

"Why not become a Grey Warden?" asked the Warden. "You could practice magic freely and not be a slave or watched by the templars."

"That's just as bad. And you're _still_ slaves. You just don't know it yet." The girl spoke as though this was an obvious fact.

The Warden shook her head. "I disagree, but you are welcome to your opinion."

Mara just crossed her arms over her chest.

"You won't miss your mother?"

"I will, but its better this way."

"Well," the Warden frowned, "have you packed? I don't see any bags."

"I packed a little." Mara gave a sheepish laugh, "I don't really have much anyway. It's easy to pack."

"I see." The Warden eyed the girl critically, turning the iron key ring over in her hands. "Mara, might I have your help before you go?"

"Depends on what you need," replied the girl. "What is it?"

"Two things. Are you at all proficient in casting healing cantrips?"

Mara shrugged. "I can try."

"Well, that doesn't sound very reassuring, but I can take a risk on it. The second thing, would you mind helping me into my armor?"

"I'm not your squire," Mara replied back curtly, "but I suppose I can. I'm not doing anything else, right? Like packing?"

"You're a cheeky girl, Mara," the Warden grinned at her, "I like you. Come along with me, and then I'll leave, and pretend I never saw you." That was a lie, of course. The Warden planned to beat the girl over the head with her sword pommel and lock her in a cabinet somewhere so that she couldn't escape. A fourteen year old girl on the run as an apostate? While she appreciated and admired the young girl's spirit, she didn't want to have the girl's eventual rape, death, and dismemberment on her hands. Or the lives that were lost because the girl couldn't control her magic and either used it for ill, or became possessed by a demon. She'd hide the girl, bind her hands, and bind her mouth. If the Warden died, well, she was sure that the girl could find her way out. And if the Warden lived, Mara could tell everything to her mother. Better that the templars take her, or she join the Grey Wardens, than run about a world that was cruel to pretty, young girls.

Mara sullenly followed the Warden up the stairs, taking dainty steps in comparison to the Warden's bounding of the stairs two-by-two. "So where did you go missing to?" she asked as the Warden tried each of the keys in the lock.

"I was with Vidar," replied the Warden absently, though not absent enough to miss the girl's sigh. The Warden turned her head to Mara. "You like Vidar?"

"He is so handsome, and such a _bastard._"

"Mara, that is not proper language to use," scolded the Warden, turning the key in the lock and smiling when it clicked open.

"Well, it's _true. _ He is a bastard. Ma calls him that. He's a _pretty _bastard."

The Warden ushered the babbling Mara inside. "And why does your mother call him a bastard?"

"She says she doesn't like the way he looks at women, but I wish he'd look at _me _in that way."

"He's a bit old for you," the Warden shut the door, "don't you think?" It made her uneasy to think of Vidar looking at Mara the way he looked at the Empress, or worse, the way he looked at the Warden.

"Only by twenty years."

The Warden chuckled. "_Only _twenty years."

"Pfft." The girl flicked her hair over her shoulder. "As if _you're _one to talk."

"I can talk because I'm older than you." The Warden went to her armor stand and admired her beautiful plate. She had missed it. She also missed the sword that was resting across the vanity, and the shield that was propped against the mirror.

"Not by much." Mara circled around the room. "You're still carrying on with an _older _man. He's got to be _more _than twenty years older than you too."

"But I'm a Grey Warden, and you're not. Grey Warden years are like animal years, Mara."

"That's really silly."

"Well," the Warden traced her finger down the Grey Warden crest, "it is true."

"I heard you and the Warden Commander, you know." She was completely unbothered by such a thing too, by the dry way in which she spoke. "Ma was really mad."

"Being the Warden Commander," the Warden gave the girl a sidelong look, "I can't carry on with myself."

"You're not the Warden Commander anymore." Mara's eyebrows raised in challenge.

"I will be, once Loghain knows that I am alive."

"Maybe." Mara shrugged. "I doubt it though. Ma always says that people in the Grey Wardens have trouble giving up power."

"Then it is a good thing that Loghain is not a traditional Grey Warden," the Warden tucked that piece of information away for future use. She had written Coralie off as nothing more than a house keeper, but apparently, the woman was a Grey Warden and had some very strong opinions. She deserved a proper meeting. "Now, let's see what you can do with that magic of yours." The Warden extended her arm, and gestured to her wounded side. "I'm hurting in this general area, since I was stabbed there. Do you think you can close the wound?"

"Erm…maybe?" Mara chewed on her lip as she considered the fabric of the Warden's shirt. "Can you take it off so I can see it? Seeing it would help me, I think. I've never casted a healing spell before, so I don't know what to do. I don't want to do what feels natural, before you suggest that, because you'll probably be on fire if I do."

"Oh," the Warden smirked, "You want to set me on fire? Well then. Lend me a hand please?"

Mara assisted the Warden in taking off Vidar's shirt. The Warden's breast band had ridden up her side as she'd walked and taken the fabric that held the poultice in place with it. "It's all _green._" Mara wrinkled her nose.

"That's Vidar's poultice."

Mara made a noncommittal sound and plucked the dressing fabric away from the Warden's binding. She dabbed away at the poultice, scraping away the green paste to get a good look at the wound. "His stitches are so precise. His hands must be so steady. What did it feel like to have his hands on your body?"

Disgusting was the first word that came to the Warden's mind, but that would be lying. "Strong." It was an honest response, if not a slightly titillating one. The Warden didn't want to feed the girl's fantasies too much. "And callused."

"Oh, Maker's breath," Mara whispered. "I am so in love with him."

The notion amused and frightened the Warden Commander. "If you heal the wound," said the Warden, "I'll introduce you to Vidar. But _only_," she continued sternly, "If you heal the wound."

"Done." The incentive was so strong that the spell was already on Mara's lips. Her fingertips traced the Warden's wound, and flesh slowly began to knit and mend. Ignoring the winces of the Warden as the skin grew around the stitches, Mara admired her handiwork. "Try to move."

The Warden pulled her arm over her head, swung it back and forth across her body, and then bended and twisted at the waist. She gave a satisfied grin. "Excellent. When you come of age, I'll make sure that you get your proper introduction."

Mara gave a disappointed sound. "You're a cheater."

"No, you have just never made bargains before." The Warden winked. "But I'll introduce you, on my honor. That is," the Warden gave the girl a knowing stare, "if I can find you. Remember, you'll be out hiding in the woods. I am not a tracker, and though Vidar is, unless he has met you, he is unlikely to go looking for you."

Mara shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not."

Turning to her armor, the Warden began removing pieces from the stand and placing them on the bed. Mara was sitting on the bed as she did so, talking about her mother's leather armor and how the materials were different, but their general design was the same. The Warden merely nodded her head and hummed her appraisal. Slipping Vidar's shirt over her head again, the Warden gestured for Mara to come to her side. She propped one leg on the edge of the bed and began pulling the corresponding armor pieces towards her. Mara knelt at her feet and slipped her armor into place, as the Warden did the same.

Then came the laborious task of lacing the Warden into her breastplate. Gambeson in place and padding secured, the Warden expected the inexperienced Mara to take a long time to tie her laces. However, Mara's little, quick fingers made short work of the Warden's breastplate, and the Warden found herself surprised at the girl's efficiency. "Excellent job, Mara," praised the Warden, to which the girl replied, "I do this for my mother too."

With the breastplate in place, the rest of the Warden's armor was attached easily. Tasset, pauldrons, and the like completed her set, and the Warden appeared to be the spitting image of a Warden Commander. Mara was staring at her with a curious expression.

"It is a very impressive armor set, isn't it?" the Warden gave a small twirl before turning to her vanity. The Warden's hair had been pinned haphazardly to her head at some point during her stay with Vidar, but going into battle required a more secure style. "Do you know how to braid, Mara?"

"Yes."

"Do it." The Warden perched herself on the edge of the bed and held out the necessary things that she had gathered for the girl in the palm of her hand. Little by little, the Warden's hair absorbed all the pins and ties as Mara brushed and worked. "So, erm…" Mara's face wrinkled as she neared the end of the braid.

The Warden saw Mara wince in the mirror.

"What is it?"

"Whathappenedtoyoureye?"

Reflexively, the Warden touched a gauntlet to her fake eye. "This?' She sounded more confident than she felt. "I lost it in a fight with a templar."

"Oh." Mara said nothing for a long while, and only muttered a quiet, "done," when she had finished.

When Mara's hands were gone from her head, the Warden immediately rose and went to her vanity. She opened its top drawer and plucked out the eye patch Celene had given her. Vidar had somehow managed to take hers, and the eye patch helped the Warden feel more secure. She would not go into battle without it, if she could help it. She slipped the patch over her head and settled it into position. As ridiculous as the pearl encrusted eye patch was, it would serve its purpose.

"Well, Mara," said the Warden, "you have fulfilled your obligation to me." She reached for her sword, and felt the familiar weight in her hand. A quick blow to the temple would do it. "And now it is time for me to fulfill my obligation to…" The Warden frowned. "Mara, do you hear _horses_?"

Mara nodded.

Going to the small window, the Warden looked out into her view of the courtyard. Sure enough, there were horses, and riders, and standards and pennants in a variety of colors. Men were wandering around on foot, and others were charging their horses through the streets of the Grey Warden compound.

Mara gently nudged the Warden with her hip, giving herself some room to look. "Oh," she breathed, her dark eyes round and wide. "The Chevaliers are here."

* * *

_A busy chapter with a lot going on! Hopefully, everything makes sense. __I'm sorry Chapter 28 took so long to get out, but the last few weeks have been mind-shatteringly busy, and I don't expect them to get any easier until Christmas. That being said, I'll do my best. _

_Thanks go out to the readers and to my beta Lady Winde! You guys make it all worthwhile. _


	38. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29 **

"Well," the Warden turned to the vanity and regarded the sword resting on it, "that is unfortunate."

"What're you going to do?" asked Mara, now pressed so close to the window that the tip of her nose was resting against the glass. "There are a lot of them out there. I _could _use magic, but I think that would be _awfully _bad."

"Mmmm," hummed the Warden, buckling her sword and scabbard around her waist. "Yes, very bad." She looked over her pauldron at Mara, whose eyes were darting from pennant to pennant.

"Looks like the Chevaliers from Val Foret and Val Chevin are here. Oh, oh, oh, and the Dirigeant is here too! He's the one in the gold armor with the black hair."

"Ruggedly handsome, by the sound of your voice," commented the Warden as she moved to slip on her shield. The slung it up over her shoulder, taking comfort in its familiar weight. She considered her course of action: did she hide, and wait for the Chevaliers to leave? Or did she go out and try to speak with their commander; the one Mara was so excited about?

"He wins _every _tournament. He is _very _good." Mara now had her forehead pressed to the glass. Her eyes followed the movements of the man in the center of the courtyard. He was shouting out orders from atop his black destrier, pointing at buildings to search. "He owns a large estate at the crossroads. Everyone calls it le Noir Crossing, even though it has belonged to the Durand family for centuries."

"Did he take it from them, then?"

Mara chuckled at the Warden Commander's question, amused about her lack of knowledge. "You don't know much about Orlais, do you?"

The Warden turned back to the girl and felt a muscle in her brow twitching. "Do you really want me to answer that question?"

"Probably not. The Dirigeant is part of the Durand family, so that's his home. They just call him le Noir because of his hair. No one in the Durand family has hair that black; they're all yellow-heads or some variation thereof, so when Geoffroi was born there was a _scandal. _His mother was rumored to be having an affair with Ser Henri Aucoin. _He _has hair as _black _as Geoffroi's."

"You mean to say that the Chevalier Dirigeant of Orlais is Geoffroi Durand?" The Warden laughed in surprise. "We _ransomed _him back to his father when Empress Celene took the Orlesian throne. He spent the better part of the Rebellion's end in a dungeon. Heh, he was just a squire at the time." Maker's breath, but this man would likely _not _want to speak with her.

"So you _do _know something after all," said Mara in an insolent little tone. "Yes, that's him."

Drawing her sword as quietly as she could, the Warden returned to Mara's side. She had originally been hesitant to strike the girl, but that feeling had passed. "Is there anything I should know about him?"

"Oh, there's lots to know," replied Mara dreamily, batting her eyes at the Dirigeant who couldn't see her, "every woman wishes to be courted by him and every man wishes to be him. He is pious, brave, and honorable. The Black Stallion, he is called in some social circles, and it _isn't _because that's what his standard is. His wife is an _awful _bragger, but _I _would brag too. He has eight children!"

The Warden sighed. "How you came across that information, I won't even ask."

"I am a _very _good listener."

"Mmm, yes." The Warden raised her sword, her armor creaking in the process. Mara didn't seem to notice; some _listener _she was. With a short, sharp blow, the Warden brought the bottom of her pommel to Mara's temple.

She crumbled sideways against the wall, eyes rolling back into her head and her body going limp.

The Warden sheathed her weapon and gathered the girl who had fallen to the ground. She placed her gently on the bed, and then rummaged through the lonely saddlebags in the corner of her room for some twine and her spare handkerchiefs. Collecting both of these items, the Warden bound Mara's hands and feet, and then gagged her. If Mara should awake, it would take her sometime to free herself because she would not have the luxury of her magic. The real trouble was finding a safe place to store the girl.

The armoire in her room was quite large, and also had a drawer that was wide enough and deep enough to fit the gangly Mara inside. She did not close the drawer completely, keeping a tiny sliver of space between the drawer's edge and the armoire so that the girl would not suffocate. She wanted to protect Mara's life, not end it prematurely. The Warden was sure that the Chevaliers would not bother checking the drawer of the armoire. Drawers were cumbersome to open from the inside, and a grown man or woman would not fit in its space.

The Warden considered what Mara had told her. Geoffroi was thought to be honorable… honorable at least by _Orlesian _standards, which wouldn't count for much if she were Loghain. He painted all Orlesians and Chevaliers in the same ghastly, vicious tones. Some of the Orlesians living in Ferelden had given the same descriptions. Leliana's view of the Chevaliers had been milder.

"_They have absolute power,"_ _she had said. "And that power corrupts some of them. They are just men and women, and anyone in that position, no matter if they are Orlesian or Fereldan, will become a slave to it. But there is good in them too, just like there is bad in the Grey Wardens." _

Hopefully, Geoffroi was one of those good Chevaliers. A winner of Orlais's famed tournaments, honorable in combat, virtuous, faithful to his wife, pious… he was a father, a husband, and a loyal servant of Orlais. If she could get to him before she was struck down (or was forced to strike down) by the other knights that were roaming the courtyard, then she could probably find _some _way to reason with him.

She hoped he wasn't _bitter _about his imprisonment by Maric, and for the sake of it, she would do her best to mask her blatantly obvious Fereldan accent. Her Orlesian was strong enough to carry her through a conversation, but she would be slow to speak it if she was constantly trying to mimic him. She could not hide the fact that she was a Grey Warden though. The crest on her breastplate was irrefutable evidence of her association.

Still, when it came time for her to cast open the door of her home and step out into the golden sunlight of the day, she did so with no fear.

"Geoffroi Durand, Ser, I would speak with you!" she called at the top of her lungs. Boldly she strode on the street, Chevaliers and their men drawing their weapons and readying themselves to charge at her. With her sword sheathed and shield on her back, she was not an outright threat, and while that did not stop them from attacking her, _something _was staying their hand.

The Chevalier in question turned his head to stare at her. "Who are you, Shield Maiden?" he called back to her, his voice deep, hoarse, and rich. "Who are you to address me such?"

"I am a Commander of the Grey," she replied back, hesitant to reveal her country of origin and her name, "newly come. I would discover the fates of my brothers and sisters."

"That is unfortunate," Geoffroi shifted on his saddle, "for it is my duty to purge the Grey Wardens from Val Royeaux. They have threatened the safety of the Empress and the sanctity of my beloved city. Tell me why I should spare you, Shield Maiden."

The Warden was close enough now to see Geoffroi's face clearly. He was indeed handsome, in a careworn way. His hair and beard were black, though his temples were beginning to grey. His nose was broken, likely from a stray blow to his face by an opponent in a tournament, and his eyes were a piercing shade of blue. With each step the Warden took, more details, such as the fine embossing of his armor, came into focus. However, more and more men began to line themselves in front of him, forming a wall of bodies between her and the Chevalier Dirigeant.

She was also close enough to be inspected as well, and she saw Geoffroi's eyes dart around her face, down her person, and then over her shoulder to where she'd come from.

"You should spare me," the Warden said, close enough now not to yell, "Because my goals are the same as yours."

"I thought I saw a Shield Maiden, but it appears a young lady has come before me," Geoffroi said, completely ignoring her words, "I have daughters older than you, child. Come, tell me truthfully: who did you steal the armor from, and how is it that you can stand its weight?" He spoke to her like her father might.

"It was made for me, Ser," answered the Warden, swallowing the irritation she felt, "It will fit no other."

Geoffroi chuckled, and not unkindly. "I see. So, you enjoy playing dress up, then? No doubt your father spent a fortune to make you such fine armor. Today, though, I would advise you not to wear it. This is a dangerous time to be alone on the streets, child. I'll arrange for you an escort to bring you home, if you should give me your father's name."

"I do not need an escort," the Warden replied back, "and my father is dead. I am Aurora Cousland, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. I slew the Archdemon, and I would slay Marcus, Commander of the Grey of Orlais, for his crimes against Empress Celene, Ferelden, and Weisshaupt."

The Chevalier Dirigeant's eyebrows rose and he eyed her up and down once more, as if to verify her identity, as if by _looking _at her he could somehow _know _her. "You could have great reason to lie to me about who you are." He swept his gaze across the courtyard, and the men that had circled around them.

"Why should I lie to you about my identity, Ser?" She noted the way his eyes surveyed the many men at his command, and by all right, she _should _have felt fear at the prospect of what would befall her if the Dirigeant did not believe her. But she was the Warden Commander of Ferelden; she had escaped assassination attempts, survived slaying the Archdemon, and had killed honorable and dishonorable men alike. She had been tortured, beaten, maimed, drugged, and poisoned, and _still _she scrabbled to her knees, staggered onto her feet, and managed to press onward. "Fear is not a luxury that a Grey Warden may possess," the Warden responded calmly, catching Geoffroi's gaze and holding it. Nothing had stopped her yet, and these _Chevaliers _would not break that trend. "For you, this choice is simple. If you do not believe me, then slay me." She rested her gauntlet against her heart, placing her fingers over one of the griffon wings. "But," she continued confidently, "If you do believe me, then let us work together. Let us be allies."

"And say we work together then, my lady," Geoffroi's eyes darted darkly towards her, "and I am displeased at the end of our partnership. What happens then? What happens if I do not like what I find?"

"If you are displeased with whatever resolution we come to," she tilted her head back, raising her chin in the air, "then you may slay me." The Warden mentally amended the statement: then you may slay me, if you can.

"You are very brave, Lady Cousland," he said quietly, "or very foolish."

"I think," the Warden let a wry smile escape her otherwise placid mask, "that perhaps I am just very young." She watched with some satisfaction as the Chevalier Dirigeant blinked in surprise.

"I am taken aback by your honesty and humility. Both are virtues I greatly admire." Geoffroi looked at her in an almost fatherly fashion, unable to separate the young woman from the warrior. "You remind me greatly of my youngest daughter. I would be sad to slay you for that reason alone, but I will hold you to your word. If I do not like what I see in the palace, then you will submit yourself to my judgment."

"It is the least I can do to right the egregious wrong that Marcus and his faction have done here." The Warden could not help how very _Fereldan _her Orlesian sounded, but she no longer felt the need to mask her accent. "I will do as you ask, should you come to ask it of me."

He nodded, satisfied. "Then, Lady Cousland, Commander of the Fereldan Grey, tell me what you know. Listen now, men, all of you." From buildings and streets, more soldiers and Chevaliers joined the growing circle of men. The Dirigeant did not need to raise his voice; the men around him seemed to flock to him instinctively, as though he had some magnetic aura that drew them from windows and doorways.

The Warden related to them Marcus's treachery, of how he had tried to end her life. She spoke to them of how he was trying to fragment the Grey Wardens for his own ambitions, and how he threatened the Empress's safety to further them. Where the Empress played into Marcus's plans, the Warden did not truly know, but the Chevaliers were _very _concerned for her. Obviously, they feared for her life, and if she could make the distinction that Serge and Loghain were trying to protect the Empress, and Marcus was trying to harm her, then she could save lives.

"If what she says is true," said a red-haired knight, "how will we distinguish between those Grey Wardens who work with Marcus, and those who do not?"

"We cannot." Geoffroi looked at the Warden as he spoke, "Our first priority is to protect the Diamond. We will seek out the Empress. Any Grey Warden who stands in our way will fall."

A murmur of approval went through the ranks of men.

The Warden's voice, clear and sharp like the ringing of a bell, broke through the chatter. "When we enter the palace, I recommend that I be the one to enter first."

Geoffroi shook his head at the Warden's suggestion. "My lady, I am afraid I cannot allow that to happen. I will not allow you to risk your life, or to endanger our plans. You may walk at my side, and we may enter together, but you will not go alone. I forbid it."

It would have been easy for the Warden to openly protest such words. It would also have been futile, and only made these men that much more reluctant to escort her into battle. Aveline had been posthumously raised to the ranks of the Chevaliers, but they did not easily accept women into their ranks, and those women they did accept won their place not by word or by protest, but by deed. She could suffer the fathering and shepherding, if it meant getting what she needed, and she would do it because it was _her _choice to do so. Containing her sigh, and admiring the Dirigeant's seemingly chivalrous action, the Warden inclined her head. "As you say."

The Chevalier Dirigeant seemed pleased by her easy acquiescence, and he raised his voice high in command. "Let us waste no more time in search of fugitives. We march now to the palace. For Empress Celene! For Orlais!"

"Celene!"

"Celene!"

"Orlais!"

"Orlais!"

The other Chevaliers and their companies of men joined in on his cries. Amidst the sea of chanters, it was only the Warden who remained silent. It was not her chant to take up. It was neither her country, nor her sovereign.

As the men chanted, they began to muster. Chevaliers remounted their horses, men scurried into their formations and amidst the chaos, Geoffroi raised a gauntlet and beckoned the Warden to his side. Squaring her shoulders, the Warden strode towards him.

"You speak Orlesian very well, Lady Cousland," he said as he dismounted. He was not much taller than the Warden when standing, and seemed far less imposing, though he was still very impressive. "Your father did you a great service, for you are Bryce's daughter, are you not?"

"I am."

"I always liked Bryce." Geoffroi smiled, which only served to accentuate the deep lines in his face that were borne of years in the sun and much toil. "An honorable man, though I am still bitter at the loss of my family's sword. A beautiful blade," Geoffroi's gaze was about as sharp as its blade, "with a handle made of gold and encrusted in rubies. When he took it from me, I thought I might never be able to return home in anything but shame."

The Warden had last seen that sword on the mantle above her fireplace. She had taken it down once or twice from the wall when she was younger, and attempted to slice and stab at the air with it, but the pommel had been too large for her hand, and its weight had been awkward. "And yet, you returned home."

"To a hero's welcome, no less." Geoffroi chuckled. "It is a curious thing to return to one's home as a hero, rather than a prisoner. I hope you find your return to Ferelden as agreeable as I found my return to Orlais."

The Warden raised an eyebrow at Geoffroi's perceptiveness. "As do I." Neither she nor Geoffroi seemed interested in discussing the possibility of what would happen if she did not get the opportunity to return, since it was contingent on Geoffroi's satisfaction, and the Dirigeant did not seem to relish the idea of killing her.

Geoffroi gestured to his horse. "Mount, my lady. I will lead you into battle."

"I beg your pardon?" asked the Warden in surprise.

"You are pardoned, child." The Chevalier Dirigeant patted the saddle, beckoning the Warden to sit on it. "Now, if my lady would ascend to her steed, we can begin our campaign."

"I cannot ride your horse."

"I insist."

"I must decline." The Warden's eyes narrowed. "It would seem you do not trust me, Ser, why else would you seek to shepherd and watch me? What is about my honor that gives you pause?"

"On my word as gentleman, I trust you. It is," the Chevalier Dirigeant quickly glanced over his shoulder to assess the state of his men, "your enemies within the palace that I do not trust. While I may ultimately be forced to slay you, it is my duty to protect you, as your father protected me." His voice dropped low, and his blue eyes pierced her lonely grey one, "your father was one of the few men who offered mercy to surrendered enemies during the Rebellion. Men like Loghain Mac Tir and Rendon Howe slit throats indiscriminately. Your father was a man cut from a very different cloth. He did me a kindness a long time ago, and I would see it done for you too."

It was clear that this was a man who did not often beg, but the Warden discerned just the faintest undertones of it in his speech. Honor meant everything to the Chevalier Dirigeant. He had a debt of honor to repay her father, and he would not rest easy until it had been paid. Loghain would never have allowed such a thing to happen, and would have advised her to leave the man in such a state. Let the bastard live in an existence where he is beholden to another, knowing that he will always be a lesser man.

But again, the Warden was not Loghain. She was from a different generation, had lived a different life. So when it was that she braced her hands on the saddle, stepped into the stirrup, and swung her leg over the back of the destrier, she felt no shame. Well, that wasn't true. She felt a little shame, if only because Geoffroi's hands had helped push her over the horse and were settling her feet properly in the stirrups. He treated her as a small child on her first mount, and it would be another indignity the Warden would endure for the greater good.

After all, she was on the back of a warhorse. It would take very little effort to kick it into a frenzy and send it screaming ahead of the main column in a glorious "accident" of flying hooves and coiled muscle.

8-8-8

The throne room was a killing ground. Grey Wardens fought Grey Wardens, Antivan Crows slaughtered friends and foes alike, soldiers and mercenaries swung at one another, and mages were casting their spells without consideration for their neighbors. Fire scalded flesh and sent capes and hair ablaze, swords and axes split limbs and bones, and poison corrupted and weakened flesh. There was no way to know who was winning, though it had become obvious to Andraste and Marcus both that the only winner of the day's battle would be Death.

Andraste, Loghain, Dane, and Serge were trapped in the space between one of the large columns that supported the massive, painted ceiling above them and the wall. All three could clearly see Marcus and the Empress standing on the dais in front of the Empress's great throne. Standing in front of them, forming a living wall of magical energy, were Grey Warden mages. They had created a kinetic and magical barrier between the battleground and the swan throne. Before the mages stood Grey Warden shield bearers, their bodies tightly interlocked to form a protective front for the vulnerable mages.

"What are they doing?" asked Serge, raising his hand over his head quickly to mirror the protective bubble. He did not flinch as an arrow bounced off the magical sphere.

"He is trying to marry her," replied Andraste, her green eyes focused on Marcus's rapidly moving lips. "She is resisting. Look how she turns away."

"That one in the middle," Loghain pointed at the fair-haired elf, "that elven mage. She is not wearing armor. We need only thin the ranks of their shield carriers, spread them out, to make her vulnerable. I assume a sword can pierce that barrier. Why else would they need guards stationed in front of it?"

"You are indeed a man of great observation and tactical strategy, Loghain," said Andraste in an approving voice. "However, Evraille is tougher than she appears."

"She would be easy to bait." Serge's handsome face wore a sinister looking smile that only served to emphasize the man's wrongness. "She has always held affection for Marcus. No doubt it must upset her greatly to know that he would bind himself to another woman."

"Can you use that?" Andraste turned to her Second, "is this something you can manipulate?"

"Oh, I think I can do more than that. I need to be closer though." Serge looked at Andraste meaningfully. "_Much _closer."

"How close?"

"I have to touch her."

"If we get him close enough to touch her," Loghain frowned, "we may as well just slay her. It would be easier."

"She is magically linked to her fellow mages by that barrier, if I touch her, I touch them all." Serge brought up a second hand and made a fist, and the energy he had been projecting slowly disappeared. "It would save us lives, if we could do it."

"Then do it we will." Andraste flexed her shoulders and rolled her neck before moving out from behind the pillar. "Loghain, keep Serge safe!" And with that, she was shouting orders for a forward surge, for the mages to focus their attacks on the men standing in front of the magical barrier. Marcus had taken the majority of the magic users, but those few who remained were quick to follow her orders. It was not practical for the archers to try and angle their shots so that their arrows landed behind the shields but before the magical barricade. However, they were told to ready their shots for the eventual break in rank.

Loghain, Dane and Serge followed in Andraste's wake. Loghain had his shield raised protectively to cover the lightly armored and vulnerable blood mage. The mage's usually sullen face was alive with the ferocity of battle, and his usual pallor had given way to a bright pink flush as his blood sung beneath his veins. A Crow dove at them from some hidden perch above them, and as Loghain raised his sword to slice the man in two, he instead found himself curiously light headed. His knees felt weak and his blood thin, and he was reminded of that time when he and the Warden had been in the Tevinter ruin and the blood mages had been…

He cast an angry glare at Serge, who had his hands above his head. Stemming from his fingers were tendrils of thin, magical energy that pulsed and twisted like blood. These tendrils of energy were being fed by tiny rays of crimson magic, which themselves stemmed from those closest to Serge. The thickest strands of the magical weave come from Andraste, but they came from Loghain, and several other nearby Grey Wardens and bodies at their feet. This magic formed a net around the Antivan Crow, slowly squeezing around him, pinning him in the air in a suffocating grip until finally his body exploded from the pressure. In the span of a few seconds, the Antivan Crow had gone from a threat to a shower of red rain.

Loghain readied himself for the splattering mass of gore and viscera, but found himself in a shower of ash instead. Serge had sucked all the life from the man's body, desiccating the flesh into a fine, ashen powder. The blood Serge sent ahead of Andraste, the mass of hot fluid crashing into the men and women that had moved to intercept her. They screamed as the blood washed over them and forced its way through noses and mouths, and clawed at their faces as they were burned from the inside out. Andraste pushed the panic Grey Wardens out of her way, shouldering them aside as she barreled forward.

Serge continued to launch deadly attacks, sucking energy from Loghain and nearby Wardens, while funneling blood from wounds and corpses. Like the other mages, Serge did not seem to discriminate between friend and foe, for he drew energy for his magic from allies and enemies alike. Loghain saw Flavius charge behind Andraste, his long legs matching hers stride for stride. He had wicked cuts on his biceps and forearms, which were weeping blood. The droplets did not drip to the floor, however. The blood flowed straight to Serge and merged with the growing mass of rippling liquid he was commanding, the blood splitting into dancing orbs that spiraled in the air above Serge's head.

The orbs were growing larger the more blood and life force they absorbed, and Loghain found himself significantly weakened by his close proximity to Serge. Andraste did not seem to be suffering from the same effects, but then Loghain guessed she had outranged Serge. Likely, she had kept Loghain by the blood mage's side _not _to protect him, but to provide Serge with enough energy to sustain his magic. It was twisted, but it was effective.

Even as Loghain felt his shield arm droop, he saw Serge send out his blood orbs with deadly accuracy to the wall of Grey Wardens that were protecting the mages. They raised their shields or ducked behind them, trying to hide from the magic hurtling their way, but Serge lowered the orbs over the edges of their shields. The orbs splattered into the faces of the guards, and they screamed.

Andraste, Flavius, Dane, and a host of other Grey Wardens and soldiers were now pressing into the scattered Grey Warden guards. Alaric was at Loghain's side, the mage's hands on either side of his face as he began to chant something. "This should help," the mage yelled against the backdrop of wailing and crying. Loghain slowly felt sensation returning to the tips of his fingers and toes, sensation he hadn't even realized he'd lost.

Loghain gave the healer a curt nod, before pushing him behind his newly raised shield. Alaric only chuckled at this and accepted Loghain's offer of protection. A tap on Loghain's sword arm announced the arrival of Zevran, who was covered head to toe in blood and grinning as only the Antivan could.

"A good fight!" Zevran told him, before charging on his lithe elven feet to join the fray.

Serge had capitalized on the chaos and had his hands through the magical barrier. His long fingers were grasping Evraille around the neck, though the skin around his wrists was blistering from where they lingered in the barrier. Fingertips digging into the elf's neck, Serge channeled the volatile and viscous blood from the injured men and women around him. The blood danced over his arms and down his hands, squirming its way through the magical barrier and the pores in Evraille's skin.

The pale elf's body began to tremble violently, as did the bodies of the other mages holding the barrier. They opened their mouths and began to scream in unison, bodies going still at Serge's command.

Two of the mages collapsed to the ground, unable to bear anymore pain. Another two dropped shortly after, and the mages continued to fall until it was only Evraille and Serge. The barrier was strong, and the skin around Serge's wrists was beginning to hiss, but Serge did not lack for blood. As more of Marcus's Grey Wardens fought against those Orlesian troops that remained, more carnage and more blood was available for Serge's use.

Evraille's eyes snapped open, and then she raised her own hand, gripping it around Serge's neck. Through clenched teeth she called upon her own magic. Serge cried out in pain as thick, woody thorns began to burst forth from his skin, and he immediately drew away from the elf that was growing a forest in his insides.

At Serge's cry, Andraste's attention was immediately on Evraille. She tried to elbow her way towards him and Evraille, but found her way blocked. If she could not go through, then she would go over. Her foot found purchase on a guard's scabbard, and she launched herself into the air. Her other foot found a hold on flat-topped pauldron, and then she was darting from body to body. In the tightly packed battlefield, there was little room for her to fall. She darted towards the barrier, swords raised in the promise of death, but Evraille stretched out a hand, and Andraste found herself frozen.

She hung in midair, hovering like an oversized snowflake or raindrop, over the battle. Serge was doubled forward and clutching at his mouth, trying to stop whatever was growing from inside him from escaping. Alaric and Loghain were next to him, Loghain felling anyone who tried to pick him off in his vulnerable state, and Alaric casting healing spells at him, but having no effect. The sight of it sent fire through the Warden Commander's limbs, and with the shattering of icicles, she broke free of Evraille's spell. She sprinted forward and dove through the barrier, sword points angled for the kill, but not for Evraille.

Andraste was headed for Marcus, and was only a few feet away when he stepped behind the Empress. "Stop," he ordered, "You will hurt Her Majesty, if you persist."

Andraste skidded to a stop, and eyed the small dagger that Marcus had in his hand. He had not pressed it to the Empress's neck, and was keeping it out of her line of sight, but there was no doubt as to his intentions. If Andraste meant to kill him, then he would kill the Empress, and he would damn them both. He settled against his polearm, the weapon having been found on the streets by the Crows.

Celene put a pale hand to her heaving bosom, barely constrained by the neck of the thin, yet voluminous gown that she wore, and gave a twitter of fear. "I cannot believe that you were right!" she cried in a shrill voice. "Oh, but this is too much! This is too much!" She looked like a startled bird, and it did appear as though her heart was racing fast in her chest.

"You see, my love?" Marcus said, "I told you she would come for you, and here she is. Would you like me to dispatch her? Would you have me protect you as I said I would?"

"Yes!" Celene nodded, sending strands of golden hair slipping from the high twist of hair at the top of her head. "Yes. Please, end this nightmare."

Marcus slipped the knife back into its holder in his gauntlet and swung his polearm so that it rested parallel to the ground. He stepped around the Empress and gave Andraste a grim smile. "My brother will be sorry to hear of your loss, but I am sure he will find another sycophant just as quickly. Did you," he pointed at her with the tip of his weapon, "really think he would make you First?"

"Do not blame your brother for his predecessor's choice," Andraste hissed back. "And do not blame him for your own shortcomings."

"You're as blind as you are prideful, Caron. Always working against me, spying on me for my brother, and for what? I could have given you more."

There was a wet ripping sound and Serge's scream pierced the halls. Andraste's shoulders tensed and her eyes darted towards the immaculate Evraille whose eyes were glowing green. "Is that what you tell your Dalish _bitch?_" Spit flew from her mouth, running down her bottom lip.

"Oh, Maker," cried Alaric, "oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooooooohhhhh, Maker! Cut it down! Cut it down! Loghain!"

"KILL ME."

More wet ripping and more screaming followed, and the only sound in the room that Andraste could hear was Serge's wails of agony. She did not even hear Marcus responding to her, she could only see his lips moving. She did not understand the words, torn as she was between her duty and her desire.

"I can't get it out! I can't get it out!"

"KILL ME, PLEASE."

Andraste's mind was made up. She sprinted at Evraille, plunging both her swords into the mage's neck and ripping them down on either side of her spine. Evraille screamed and writhed as Andraste's swords shredded her apart. Serge went silent when Evraille fell to the ground lifeless, Andraste's swords still carving her flesh from her bones.

Marcus chuckled and readied his polearm to stab his former Second through her scrawny little neck as she took out her vengeance on Evraille, but stopped when he felt warm breath beside his cheek and the kiss of the Empress's lips against it.

"I think," the Empress said quietly, "that red is your color."

And then he was choking, clutching his neck as blood seeped through his fingers.

Celene's hands weren't even dirty. She had slit his throat so quickly that she avoided the messy spray of blood and the pulsing fountain that sputtered and splattered all over Andraste's surprised face. She had turned in time to see the flick of the Empress's wrist and the sudden spiral of blood.

"I am your Empress," Celene told her, staring at her in a grave and terrible fashion. "_Kneel._"

Andraste did as she commanded, kneeling in the growing puddle of blood around Marcus's corpse. Her slim shoulders shivered as she felt the blood begin to seep into her leather armor. Her eyes were kept respectfully on the floor, though she saw the glint of the Empress's razor sharp hair pin from the corner of her eye.

The Empress stepped around the body of the former Warden Commander of Val Royeaux, mindful to avoid the messy aftermath of his death by sweeping her gown away in a grandiose fashion. Her hair was now down around her shoulders, the long hair pin in her hand trailing blood down its sharp point. "All of you," the Empress cried, her voice filling the throne room in sonorous glory, louder than any chantry bell, stronger than any battle cry, "kneel!"

Everyone dropped to their knees at the command, even the surviving Antivan Crows. The only individuals who resisted were Alaric, who was too busy trying to put Serge together, and Loghain who was "assisting" him. In reality, no amount of surprise, fear, or wrathful beauty could get Loghain's old knees to bend for anyone he did not deem worthy. He raised his head and stared at the Empress, there was a snarl on his face, a challenge to her authority. He would not _succumb _to her charms or acknowledge her power. When he dropped his gaze from hers, it was not out of respect, it was out of preoccupation that the man he was holding together would not survive. Dane gave a little whine at his side, the Mabari trotting up to examine the damage.

Evraille, the Dalish mage, had _grown _something inside Serge. The sharp, thorny plant had been trying to escape his flesh, and had opened many wounds and nearly choked him, if not for Alaric's carefully placed fire spells and Loghain's sharp sword. They had cut and burnt and frozen the thorn plant, keeping it at bay until Evraille had perished. With her death, the thing had stopped growing and was now dissolving. Much of the blood mage's body had been split apart and Serge was in excruciating pain. Alaric's efforts were having little effect to mend the man's skin, but it was enough to keep Serge alive and conscious. It had bought Serge enough time to regain his concentration, and with a whispered command to Loghain to help him sit, he began to mutter his spells.

Once more, Loghain felt weariness overtake him as Serge began to suck in his life energy, and he saw Alaric pale as a similar sensation washed over him. Blood began to slither in long, serpentine trails of brown and crimson across the stone of the palace towards Serge. It meandered over his exposed belly and began to seal crevices and hide organs. It mended shattered bones and severed tendons, and soon Serge appeared whole once more. Deathly pale and weak, but whole.

"Andraste Caron," said the Empress, "I bid you rise. Mark your traitors," she said, "with an X. Brand their foreheads." Without looking at the Warden Commander, the Empress extended her other razor sharp hairpin. "Make their treachery known to me."

Andraste rose to her feet and took the pin from the Empress's hand. She set herself to the task of branding her former brothers and sisters. They glared at her as she took their chins in her hand and carved the X between their eyes. Some tried to raise their weapons against her, but the ever-watchful eye of the Empress kept them at bay. There were worse fates than a traitor's branding. From Grey Warden to mercenary to assassin she walked, and when her task was done, she turned to the Empress who was staring over her shoulder at a darkened doorway. Nearby, a Mabari was barking.

8-8-8

The small army of chevaliers marched along the streets, taking the route that the Warden described. She had told them of the great hole in the palace wall she had found, and had directed them there. Entering the palace courtyard, they found that it was a sad graveyard of bodies and burnt trees. Fires were raging along the hedges and flower beds, burning the mazes and the topiaries to the ground. Flies were swarming along grey and black armored bodies. While it was easy to discern from what organization the bodies belonged to, it was not as obvious to guess on whose side they fought.

The battering ram that had been used to bring down the palace wall had been used to batter down the grand front door of the palace. Around the massive war machine's wheels were the bodies of the brave Orlesian soldiers who had died protecting it from fire, arrows, and blades.

"You don't intend," said the Warden quietly, so as not to disturb the dead, "for me to ride into the palace, do you?"

"No." The Dirigeant shook his head. "You may dismount and walk at my side."

The Warden did so with great relief, slipping down the side of the horse opposite Geoffroi, so that he could not coddle her. "Thank you for sparing me the pain of walking a few feet, Ser," teased the Warden gently, to which Geoffroi chuckled throatily.

"A gentleman does what he can to ease a lady's earthly torments."

"And I am nothing but a tormented woman."

"And I am nothing but a gentleman."

The Warden said nothing to that and instead prepared herself for battle. Geoffroi slid his shield over his arm the same moment the Warden did, and together, they drew their swords. Behind them, confident knights and their personal guards did the same. Some men scanned the arches and ledges for would be assassins and archers, but nothing caught their attention.

Geoffroi darted up the stairs, his shield raised defensively. The Warden was hot on his heels, mindful not to let too much distance fall between them. She _would _walk in at his side. As he slipped past the ruined doors, she was at his side. Their boots crunched against splinters and shattered planks that littered the meeting chamber. The lights in the throne room were dim, and it was nearly impossible to make out distinct shapes through the winged archway… but the Empress's voice carried clearly to them.

Warden and Chevalier strode boldly into the seat of her power, walking side by side as equals.

The massive chamber was filled with bodies. The living were as still as the dead, their bodies contorted in a crouch. The only figures not kneeling were the Empress, and five other familiar figures: Alaric, Loghain, Andraste, Serge, and Dane.

Dane abandoned his post at Loghain's side, bounding over Warden and Antivan to his mistress. Geoffroi recoiled and dropped his shield, expecting an attack, but the Warden fell to her knee and embraced the war dog.

"Hello, Ser Dane," she said quietly, "I missed you, you daft dog."

Dane melted into a puddle of canine bliss in her hands, resting his heavy head on her knees and dropping to his stomach. His tongue lolled out as she scratched behind his ears, and she only let him go when Geoffroi gave a polite cough. With Dane by her side, the Warden strode past Geoffroi. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a blond elf with a tattoo down his cheek wink at her, but she guessed it was her imagination, for there was no blond elf but a cloaked assassin.

The Empress threw her arms out wide in greeting at the Warden and the man by her side. "Lady Grey! Ser Durand! You have come in time for executions!" Her long sleeves swayed as she swept her arms left and right, encompassing all the men and women with marks on their foreheads. "We shall have hangings today, and a party in one week's time to celebrate the bravery of the Grey Wardens who fought to defend me, and the handsome Chevaliers," she gave the Dirigeant a grand smile and approached him, "who came to my aid."

Geoffroi was immediately down on his knees, his head bowed, and all the men in his company did as he did. "This servant is not worthy, Your Majesty."

The Warden looked at the display with raised eyebrows, thinking the actions of the Dirigeant to be nothing more than a grand show. But from the way in which the man's eyes were shut fiercely, and his fingers trembled as he stroked the white gown of the Empress, she was not so certain. This man would kiss the ground this woman walked on, if it was not already drenched in dirt and blood. Celene playfully darted her skirts away from his fingers, and ran a long finger over the crown of his head.

"Come, Ser Durand, have your men herd the branded ones to the gallows. I want my city free of treachery by sundown."

"It will be as you command, Empress," Geoffroi said, standing straight and tall, but humble in the presence of the Swan of Orlais. He barked orders for his man to stand, and the Chevaliers broke into small groups as they corralled the marked men and women into corners. Those Grey Wardens who were not marked remained kneeling, but raised their heads to show that they had nothing to hide.

Andraste was suddenly by the Warden's side and then slipping past her, following the Chevaliers around the room to make sure they were not arresting her own Grey Wardens. The redhead gave her several sly looks over her pauldron, before ignoring her completely.

A gentle pressure on the small of the Warden's back indicated the presence of the Empress. "You look well, my Lady Grey," she said mildly, regarding the Warden through her long eyelashes, "for someone who is dead."

"I hear that more often than I like."

"Take pride in it. After all," she smirked, a luscious thing of full lips and sinister humor, "you could not hear me say such things if you were dead."

The Warden inclined her head in acceptance. "You would have the right of it, Empress."

The Empress touched the point of her hair pin to the Warden's cheek, leaving a droplet of Marcus's behind. "I have little birds in my palace that told me of what Marcus intended to do you. You do not have to fear such a thing will come to pass. I killed him myself."

The Warden touched her fingers to the blood and wiped it away, leaving a small streak of red behind against her fair skin. "You have my eternal thanks."

"I feel so responsible," Celene licked at her thumb and washed away the mark on the Warden's skin, "for what came to pass." She embraced the Warden tenderly for all to see, wrapping her slender arms around the other woman's armored waist. She fit herself cleverly past the Warden's shield and sword. Her pink lips brushed against the shell of the Warden's ear. She spoke softly, her words more of a drone or a hum, than actual speech. "I should have known, but alas, I did not. I did not wish to believe."

"It would have happened anyway," the Warden said, awkwardly stroking the immaculately white gown of the Empress with her shield hand. "Whether you were ready or not. I do not think anyone would have done differently."

The Empress made a little sound of bored displeasure and pulled away from the Warden's ear. She rubbed the tip of her nose against the taller woman's, and wrinkled it in pleasure. She was mercurial, but only because she was upset. She had changed the topic too quickly for it to escape the Warden's notice, but the Warden said nothing. She allowed the Empress a few moments of feigned playfulness to regain her composure, to allow whatever pangs of grief she felt at the loss of a longtime companion to pass. The Warden understood. The Warden would have done the same, and hoped that the Empress would have helped her save face too. The Warden Commander of Ferelden shut her eyes and returned the affectionate gesture, which sent the Empress into twittering laughter: half-forced, half-thankful.

"I am," the Empress said with a pleased smile, "having a ball. A _masquerade._ You are coming, Lady Grey."

The Warden raised her eyebrows. "Am I allowed to come in my armor?"

"Oh," the Empress shook her head, "Maker's graciousness, no. You will attend me, and I will attend you. I like you," the Empress ran her hands down the Warden's cheeks, "my dearest Grey Sister. I will have a fine dress made for you, and I shall make you more radiant. You deserve this, my dear friend."

What the power play was, the Warden did not understand. The Empress was clearly sending a message to _someone, _for she was not bothering to hide her speech or her affectionate mannerisms. If it was to Andraste, the Warden Commander of Val Royeaux did not seem to be listening. She was too busy across the room, arguing with Geoffroi. And if it was for Loghain…

"It is for all of you," the Empress then cried, pulling away from the Warden, "all of you loyal Grey Wardens who stood with me. The masquerade shall be for you, in your honor."

Murmuring from the kneeling Grey Wardens rippled across the hall, a few of them shouting out loud thanks to the Empress for her kindness.

"I shall send a messenger to your compound with the details. I expect all of you to attend!" Of course, the Empress had no way of knowing if all of them would, but she had to make the display nonetheless. "We shall feast, and dance, and rejoice. You may return to your vigilance in the morning!"

Now there were _more _shouts, all of them approving.

The Empress cast a sly look at the Warden before picking up the front of her dress and gliding across the room towards Geoffroi and Andraste. Grey Wardens reverently touched their hands to her gown as she passed, adding bloody fingerprints to the stains that were rapidly spreading along the gown's hem. She walked boldly across the battlefield of her throne room, stepping over bodies and strewn weapons with an unearthly grace. When Geoffroi saw her approach, he touched his fingers to his forehead in respect, his lips moving furiously as he recited some passage of the chant to himself.

All in all, it had been a curious day, and it was not even over. The Warden shouldered her shield and sheathed her sword. She flexed her shoulders, hearing them crack, and mentally readied herself for what was to come next. She was eager to be reunited with Loghain, and ready for answers. She turned, intending to see what had happened to Serge to cause Loghain and Alaric to crouch over him and caress him, and found Loghain standing behind her. He was looking at her an expression of curious wonder. His head was slightly tilted to one side, and his lower lip was moistened from an absent lick of his tongue. He narrowed his blue eyes, and slowly, tentatively, as if she might fade away, he touched her.

Loghain placed his gauntlets on either side of the Warden's face, half expecting her to vanish at the slightest pressure. But she did not, and he pressed his palms against her cheeks a little harder. She was real. She was not a figment of his imagination. She was not a ghostly echo, some phantom that Loghain could chase through the palace. He had seen Maric a few times in Denerim, the deceased king wandering through the halls in front of his study. Always Loghain had followed him, calling after him, but Maric had never turned, because Maric had never truly been there. But the girl was there. She was _there. _ And he had no idea what to say to her.

He could merely stare at her, and look into that insolent grey eye and those brazen lips and believe that sometimes the Maker did work in mysterious ways, and that he did reward those who did their duties.

"How?" he rasped, letting his hands fall away. His chest felt tight, and his head light.

"I will tell you when we return to the compound." The Warden could not stop her lopsided grin at the dumbfounded expression on Loghain's face. "And before," she in turn raised her hands to his cheeks, pressing his face between her gauntlets, "you begin to go all maudlin on me, I forgive you. I never expected you to come back. I did not want you to."

Loghain frowned, and pulled away, his thick eyebrows lifting in a scowl. "It had not even crossed my mind until you mentioned it. But thank you, Warden Commander." The little chit just _had _to remind Loghain of his silly promise, of the one he'd had to break. He had half a mind to explain to her what it meant to him, and opened his mouth to do so, but was stopped by her swift intervention.

The Warden chuckled and placed an affectionate hand on his cheek, drawing him back in. Her gauntlet cupped it gently, her thumb stroking the corner of his mouth in soft, soothing touches. "I missed that face. Your," she smiled, "scowl. Strange thing to say, like the sun saying it misses the clouds, but there it is." She released him, letting her arm fall to her side.

His expression had softened at her words. His mouth had slackened from its offended line into something looser and more amenable, and the hard glint of his embarrassment had disappeared from his eyes. Yet, he still watched her with a guarded demeanor. Still, he could not control the wry tone of voice, "Of all the things, you missed my _scowl_?"

"Just as you missed my smile." The Warden's smile was girlish and winsome. "Don't think I haven't forgotten that. But come, we have much to discuss, and I am sure you do not want all these fine Grey Wardens and Chevaliers thinking we are _flirting_?"

"Flirting, madam?" Loghain gave a small harrumph. "With you? Never."

The Warden only chuckled again, and let Loghain lead.

* * *

_And so they are reunited at last. There'll be a bit more debriefing next chapter before Celene's grand masquerade, lest you worry that they haven't been sufficiently reunited. I just wanted to get this chapter out before the holidays ended. _

_We're also one year into the story now. Yesterday was Trovommi Amor's first birthday! Hopefully, we can finish it before the second. Yes. Hopefully. _

_Love goes out to my beta Lady Winde, and of course to all the readers. Special thanks to those of you who stop to comment; your feedback, insight, and ideas are always appreciated!_


	39. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

The hangings were promptly at sundown. As the sun set across the city and the street lamps were lit, the ropes of the gallows began to creak and the wood groan. The Empress sat in a great sedan chair as she watched it all, reclining on luxurious silk pillows and eating from a bowl of red berries as if she were at the theater or attending some puppet show. And indeed, she may very well have been, for the disjointed flailing of terrified and dying limbs very much resembled the movements of a marionette being manipulated by a master puppeteer.

As each lifeless body was cut down and thrown into the awaiting cart, the Empress would take one of the small, fat berries by her side and plop it into her mouth. She would lick the juices from her lips with a red-stained tongue, and wave casually with her red fingered hand for the next group of traitors to be led before her for judgment. Geoffroi Durand, the Chevalier Dirigeant, listed their charges against Orlais, and Andraste Caron, the Commander of the Grey of Orlais, listed their charges against the Grey Wardens and Weisshaupt. Andraste had deferred to the Empress's means of justice in attempt to establish good relations and to show the Empress how much the remaining Grey Wardens respected her sovereignty and counsel. Ultimately, whether the traitors were hanged or they were sent into the Deep Roads, the end result was no different. Celene's goals were the same as Andraste's for all intents and purposes, and Weisshaupt would understand why the Grey Warden traditions had to be broken.

The surviving Grey Wardens of Val Royeaux had been invited to the executions by a grand proclamation from the Empress. Of course, all of them had declined. The Grey Wardens tending their wounds and hiding behind the thick walls of their compound had understood _why _the invitation had been extended. They knew it was a warning, that if they stepped one toe out of line, the Empress would have them on the gallows too. None of them wanted to risk gaining the attention of the Empress anymore than they had to, fearing that her good humor at being rescued would swiftly turn to anger at the slightest tickle of a cough during a silence, or creak of armor during a pause.

And so, the only Grey Wardens in attendance were the two Fereldan Grey Wardens (and Dane), Andraste, and Serge. The Fereldans attended because they'd been in the company of the Empress of all day, and she seemed unwilling to release them from her lacquered and perfumed grip. Andraste attended out of both her duty and her desire for retribution. Serge, pale and sweating though he was, attended because of Andraste. He was leaning heavily on the Warden, who along with Loghain, was standing as a guard for the Empress. The three of them stood to the right of the Empress's sedan chair, a position of honor, she had assured them.

The Warden had one armed wrapped around Serge's waist and another across his chest, her hand resting against Serge's far shoulder. She held him steady, kept him standing, and every so often felt the glimmer of magic against her skin as he took healing sustenance from her. It felt like standing in the ocean and having the tide wash over her; submerged in whatever aura Serge emanated, she left colder and weaker than when she had entered. Despite it being a draining and curious sensation, the Warden did feel that it was a _fitting _turn of events. Serge was the powerless one now and needed to rely on _her. _ She was the one with the power to make sure he could heal, or even make it back to the compound. She could withhold her health, just as he had withheld secrets. The Warden lamented inwardly that she would not be able to unleash the full fury of her temper on the blood mage, since it wouldn't be right to be angry with an invalid. Or a near invalid. Not that she had intended to rant and rave about him keeping secrets from her, but she did want to have a long, stern conversation about how, as a Warden Commander of and Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, she deserved transparency.

Loghain was on the Warden's other side. He was close enough that his pauldron was scratching against hers, but far enough away that she couldn't speak to him quietly in private without moving anything more than her head (there was also the matter of the content and snuffling mabari that was seated between them… one that absolutely refused to move from his two beloved masters, even when they tried to nudge him aside with their feet…). He would have to lean in, and the Warden saw him do so several times, but then hesitate as if he thought better of the gesture.

She had not gotten a chance to speak with him in length after being reunited with him. Loghain had led her straight to Andraste, and between Andraste, the Empress, and the Chevalier Dirigeant, the Warden had been busy binding and securing the Grey Warden traitors and the remaining Antivan Crows. Then, out of honor, she had waited for Geoffroi to finish attending to his Chevaliers and the Empress in order to receive her formal dismissal. The Dirigeant had been surprised (and charmed) by the fact that she had remembered and waited. He had bowed and released her, claiming that all was more than satisfactory.

Once she had been released, the Empress had charged her with escorting her through the palace so that she could check on her servants and courtiers. Along with Geoffroi and a handful of other knights, Dane, and a grumbling Loghain (who only went because he didn't trust her safety in a group of Orlesians), the small group had gone from room to room to clear out any hiding Grey Wardens and assassins, or rescue any hostages. They freed numerous servants and nobles from the dungeons and their personal apartments, and encountered no enemies along the way. Whatever forces Marcus had controlled, he had spent them on protecting the throne room. The task had taken the majority of the day, and when they were done, the sun was on its way to setting, and the group made its way to the gallows per Celene's prior arrangements.

"Next," called the Empress loudly, gesturing to the Grey Wardens who had stopped struggling and were now swinging languidly in the breeze. She slipped her hand to the bowl at her side, but found it was empty. She gave a sigh and drummed her fingers in the empty bowl, nails tinkling like bells against the beautiful blue and white porcelain.

Loghain had been watching the Warden's face with each set of hangings, looking for a reaction each time the trapdoors in the gallows dropped. He thought he had seen a slight raise of an eyebrow at the first set of men, but he had not seen anything since then. If she was perturbed by the hangings, she did not show it. Whatever her thoughts were, they were the Warden's alone. For Loghain's part, he was at least glad she was not expressing any open glee. The execution of traitors was a necessary thing, but not something to be done with any sort of levity. Death was grim, it was not joyful. He was broken out of his thoughts by the Warden's voice.

"Serge," the Warden said quietly, her voice a breathy whisper, "_stop _that."

"Stop _this_?" was his reply.

The Warden felt her cheeks tingle again. "Yes. _That._"

Dane growled.

Serge chuckled. "Do you not like it?"

The Warden gave a half-strangled gasp of something akin to frustration and pleasure, and pursed her lips together. She gave herself a small shake, like a dog shedding itself of water, before whispering in a hoarse voice, "Serge, are you _flirting _with me?"

Loghain leaned forward, the braid at the side of his cheek leading the way. He raised a thick eyebrow in question, his mouth set into a line of morbid and completely disapproving curiosity. The Warden's cheeks were flushed a bright, rosy red, that Loghain was only familiar with in two contexts. He had seen the blush come upon her after a long fight, the flush creeping up her neck and cheeks as she rested her hands on her knees and took in deep, heaving breaths. He had also seen it on her when her little pink tongue had gotten the better of her, when it wagged out of her control and spouted little quips about plowing and tools. The quips that he would capture, twist, and then mercilessly turn on her until her cheeks, neck, and ears were as red as a sunrise.

This wasn't combat, and Loghain hadn't heard her, for lack of a better word, _flirting _with the mage. This meant that Serge was meddling, and Loghain was very tired of it; there had been far too much meddling in his affairs and the Warden's as of late. He leveled a stern glare at the blood mage, who had raised his own eyebrows in question to Loghain's movement. "There is to be," he said in a low, serious voice, "_no _flirting. Is that understood?"

"I agree," said the Empress, shifting onto her side. She extended a long arm and swatted Serge gently on the shoulder. "Listen to her father, and leave Lady Grey alone." With a laborious movement and a silvery sigh, she pulled herself once more onto her pillows.

The Warden gave a grunt of disapproval at that, her back stiffening in response.

Serge said nothing. He inclined his head in acquiescence to the Empress's teasing chastisement, and then shot Loghain a look from the corner of his eye and gave a small smirk. He extended his arm that was around the Warden's waist and gently touched a long finger on Loghain's side.

Loghain pulled away abruptly when he felt his cheeks heat up. "Even with _me,_" he growled.

The Warden caught sight of Loghain's cherry red cheeks and gave a small chuckle of amusement. "That is a good color on you, Loghain," she said quietly, leaning her head towards her Second. Serge was grinning his agreement.

Loghain gave a great sigh. "Maker help me."

It was well into the evening when the last of the bodies had been thrown into the cart. The Empress bid them all farewell as she gave a grand yawn and nestled into her pillows. Her devoted Chevaliers picked up the many wooden poles that extended from the base of the sedan's rest. They shouldered their burden, carrying the Empress back to the safety of the palace. Geoffroi led their way, sending the Warden a polite nod of his head before he disappeared with his Empress into the gloom.

Andraste joined the three Grey Wardens, her face pale in the moonlight. "A grim business," she said, "but necessary. Weisshaupt will understand, and will no doubt be pleased."

The Warden and Loghain only nodded absently at her statement, too focused on other issues to consider Weisshaupt's approval.

"The First will be pleased with your actions, as he so normally is," replied Serge with a courteous bow of his head.

Andraste extended her arms for the blood mage, and Serge in turn wrapped an arm around waist as he clung to her for support like a child being passed from one parent to another. She stiffened slightly as Serge sent out tendrils of magic energy to leech off her life force, and gave a small groan as the cold magic sunk its way deep into her bones. In contrast, the Warden gave a small sigh of relief as she felt feeling return to her limbs. Heat and blood surged through her body, warming her from the inside out. She had not noticed that the majority of her extremities had gone numb, but with Serge no longer feeding off her, she was aware of the potential damage he could have done her if he'd been too "hungry." He could have leeched away her life force without her realizing the full extent of the damage, until she was lying too weak to move on the ground. It was a good thing that Serge had remarkable control, she mused.

"Perhaps we should return to the compound," said the Warden as she wiggled her fingers in their gauntlets to rid them of the painful stabbing and throbbing that had manifested, "and you can tell me all about your time in Ferelden. No doubt it was exciting."

"Right now?" Andraste frowned and squeezed Serge tighter to her side. "I think it best if we retire for the night. Serge is very weak and needs to rest, and I am very tired myself. I will brief you on Ferelden tomorrow, I promise."

The Warden clenched her jaw and gave a stiff nod of her head, holding her frustrated sigh captive in the hollow of her chest. She felt Loghain's presence at her back and the subtle pressure of his fingers against the edge of her shield. "Very well." Andraste's promise held about as much water as Serge's, which was not much. But it was all she had.

"And where is your rush?" The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux smiled indulgently at her, "you cannot leave before the masquerade. The Empress would go into a fit if you did, and probably execute us all for treason at the slight. Come, there is plenty of time, my Fereldan friend."

"As you say." The Warden replied stiffly. Her eyes darted to the gate that would take them on the path home. "Lead on."

With Andraste taking point, Serge tucked into her side, and the other two Grey Wardens flanking her, they made their way home.

Two things struck the Warden on the quiet walk back to the Grey Warden compound. The first was that she was intensely more mortal than she thought, but this was not in relation to herself, but more in relation to Fergus. As the oldest, Fergus had been fierce and independent, riding fearlessly into the night with friends to travel across Ferelden by horseback, sailing the Waking Sea with Bryce to find his Antivan bride, and even braving the Orlesian court in the process. He had been a resilient older brother, strong, proud, and intensely loyal, but immensely reliant on his family. Fergus flew from the nest on broad wings, ready for adventure, but always did he return, for the nest was always open to him. Highever was his home, he was to be its lord, and no matter how world weary he became, no matter how tired of his travels or painful his journey, he always had a home filled with light and laughter to return to.

However, the safety of the nest had been taken from Fergus. Though he could return to Highever, it was an empty and barren thing. There was no loving family to welcome home. There was no proud father to share stories with, no iron-spined mother to discipline and coddle him, no inviting arms of a sultry wife, and no pant-leg tugging and high-pitched squealing from a first born son. All he had left was a sister's gentle hug of greeting and farewell. To lose that meant that he had lost everything, and the Warden feared that her death might be enough to send him teetering over the edge into a never ending sea of grief. Perhaps one day, Fergus might recover. But he would never be the same man that had left Highever for Ostagar. He would probably be a man like Loghain, and though the Warden held her Second in the highest regard, a life of bitterness and enforced solitude was not a fate she would wish upon her brother.

Unfortunately, the truth of the matter was that the Warden would eventually die, whether it was by the Calling or another man's hand. That is how it would be, and how it would _have _to be. Unless Fergus met an untimely end, he would outlive her, and it was unacceptable.

What Fergus needed, she decided, was someone to love. He needed another pair of soft, inviting arms to welcome him to bed, and a pair of tender lips to greet him in the morning. Such a person served two purposes: to save Fergus from grief, and reestablish the Cousland bloodline. There was no way that the Warden would allow Howe to have victory, even in death. The Couslands had to persevere and persist, and Fergus was the best chance at making such a thing happen. The Warden's chances of conception were slim, but Fergus had proven that he could sire children. Yes, the Cousland line _depended _on him.

But Fergus was stubborn and would not likely be amenable to a sudden match or a forced pairing. If the Warden threw women at him, he would recognize it immediately. And even if she did throw women at him, there was no guarantee that they would be his type. Fergus had surprised her by bringing home the sly-eyed and hot-blood Oriana. She had always assumed her brother's tastes to be for softer, rounder, and gentler women and indeed, many of the young ladies Fergus had 'courted' had been such. But while Oriana had been wasp-wasted and round of cheek, she had also been of furious temper and sharp tongue. She had not been quiet, demure, or gentle in the ways that Fergus's other women had been. She had been these things as befitting a noble lady, but it had been obvious that such traits had been _learnt. _They were not innate.

It made the Warden wonder if Oriana was the exception, and not the rule. And if she was the rule, would Fergus even want another woman like his wife? Of course, this was all under the assumption that the Warden could even find a suitable woman, one that would be good for Fergus, and one that she could tolerate. And unfortunately, if the Warden was completely honest with herself, she did not really know many other girls between her age and Fergus's that she particularly liked. If the Warden was to have a new sister-in-law, she had to at least like the woman. She had to have qualities that would be admirable in the Cousland bloodline and that would compliment what Eleanor had brought to Bryce, or what her grandmother had brought to her grandfather. Such a thing warranted serious consideration…

And the other thing that troubled the Warden was her constant "meetings" with the Antivan Crows. She was becoming very tired of the Crows taking an interest in her business and her personal well being. She thought that Zevran had been a one-time chance, and yet the Antivans came to collect on Zevran, which meant collecting on her. And then the Antivans had come for her in Orlais, and what was next? Would they be waiting for her in Weisshaupt too? She had to nip their little relationship in the bud, before they became too much like an obsessive lover and hounded her wherever she went. She did not think writing an angry letter to the Crow Grandmaster would help her much, and might in fact send more Crows after her. Paying them a visit might have the same effect and would also delay the return trip to Ferelden…

But she did not have to dwell on it long. As she bade Loghain a fond farewell at the door to her room and retreated inside it for a night's worth of troubling, lonely thoughts, she found herself in the sights of a familiar Antivan assassin. Or rather, she had stepped into her room when his voice reached her ears: "Ah, there you are!" But despite the familiar sound, it was not _Zevran's _voice she heard speaking. She could hear muttered Antivan words and muted footsteps on cobblestones as the assassins readied themselves to round the wall of the house she was resting against. Her blood thrummed in her veins. She was about to shout for Loghain, and she could feel the tremor and tighten of her muscles as they readied for battle… when she was nudged out of the way by Dane.

Dane trotted into the room and headed straight for the bed, where Zevran was resting comfortably, and clambered up beside him.

"You never bathe, do you?" Zevran murmured as he ran a gentle, gloved hand over the top of the war dog's head. "It is a good thing you take the direct route in battle. You would be a horrible creature of the shadows, my smelly friend."

Dane gave a low rumble of appreciation at Zevran's caresses and shut his eyes.

"There is a bath here waiting for you," Zevran said, looking at the pale and panting Warden, "courtesy of Coralie is it?" He grinned at her half-opened mouth and defensive stance, "My lovely one, if you want to eat flies, perhaps we can go to the dock? Or the fish market?"

The Warden took a few moments to steady her voice. "You are very lucky," she remarked as she removed her hand from her sword, "that Dane hasn't forgotten you. Or that I haven't forgotten the sound of your voice, for that matter." The Warden shot Zevran a stern glance over her shoulder as she turned to shut the door. Her hands were still shaking.

"I generally find myself fortunate when the opposite is true, but," Zevran placed his arms behind his head and gave a great yawn, "in this case, I am glad."

"I bet you are." Moving to her armor stand, the Warden began to pluck and unbuckle those pieces of armor and gear that were superfluous in the company of Zevran and Dane's appraisal of the situation's danger. Off came the gauntlets, couters, greaves and pauldrons, until the Warden was left in the safety of her breastplate and leg plates. Her shield was resting comfortably against the wall, but the sword remained strapped to her belt. If there was one lesson she had learned from Orlais, it was that her weapons and armor were her most faithful companions.

Zevran watched her with some amusement as she undressed. "I can help with that, you know."

"I know you can, but I won't be bathing while you're still in sight."

"There is a charming wooden screen you could use. I promise," he waggled his eyebrows, "not to look."

"I have heard you say that before," she replied wryly, "and know the opposite is true."

He grinned in a completely unashamed fashion. "Leliana angled the mirror, it was never my intention. I promise."

"Oh, not your intention, of course." The Warden sighed and ran a hand down her side, tracing the seam of her breastplate. She toyed with the idea of removing it, but thought better of it. She stalked to the dresser.

The Antivan canted his head to the side in a thoughtful gesture. "What has your grey feathers ruffled, my friend?"

"That is," the Warden paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek, "a little tactless."

"Oh, of course." Zevran's forehead met his palm. "Silly, Zevran. She's been hounded by the Antivan Crows. No wonder you are so on edge." With the uncoiling of long legs and powerful muscles, Zevran carefully moved towards her. He let the bed creak and the floorboards squeak so that she was aware of his movements, giving her ample opportunity to sense his approach. He was quick enough to dart away from a stab of her sword, but Zevran did not relish the idea of a friend's blade turning on him, even by reflex.

"I am tired," the Warden said as Zevran neared, "of being hunted."

"I think that makes you just like everyone else," Zevran placed a hand on the small of her back, his flesh warming the breastplate. "Thought not everyone is hunted by the Antivan Crows. Well, that is not actually true. If you live in Antiva, you most likely are hunted by the Antivan Crows on a daily basis, but we are not in Antiva."

"We may as well be sometimes." The Warden turned to look at her reflection in the mirror, catching Zevran's eyes briefly before returning them to her own face. "I would have liked to have visited Antiva, Zevran, but it seems that I may never be able to."

Zevran raised a blond eyebrow. "You can always visit Antiva."

"Not if the Antivan Crows are going to continually be on the hunt for me. I've seen them in Ferelden, now in Orlais; do you suspect that I will meet another band of them in the Anderfels?"

"Of course you will meet them." Zevran gave her a fond smile and drummed his fingers against her armor, "Antivan Crows are scattered on, how do we say… business throughout Thedas. Unless they are after you, you will never know you've met them either. We are masters of disguise."

"Unless they fail in killing me?" there was only cold amusement in the Warden's tone.

The elf chuckled. "Just so. Tell me," Zevran leaned forward and touched the image of the Warden in the mirror, tracing her eye patch with a finger, "did one of my former brothers do this to you?"

The Warden shook her head, lips held in a thin white line.

"Good. Will you tell me how you got it?"

Again the Warden gave a grim shake of her head, before quickly moving to change the subject. "What are you doing here, Zevran?" the Warden turned to her friend, "I thought you had decided to go your own way."

"I have. I did as I said; I kept tabs on Andraste for you while she was in Denerim."

"And you followed her to Orlais?"

Zevran's smirked at the tone of her voice, his grin wide and white on his tanned face. "My lovely Grey Warden, are you _jealous_?" His sand colored eyes glittered in the dim light of the candles.

The Warden's eye blinked. "Do I have a reason to be?"

"I do not think so. In truth," Zevran's smile softened, "I came to Orlais because I was going to return to Antiva anyway, and this reunion was the perfect opportunity to say goodbye."

"Were you going to Antiva to die?"

"Oh, hardly. Pffft." Zevran made a face. "What a silly thing you say. There are some things I need to do in Antiva before I can truly disappear."

"What sort of things?"

"That would be telling, my dear Warden."

The Warden took a deep breath as the fire of an idea was lit. "So you _are _returning to Antiva then?"

"I am."

"Zevran," the Warden shifted away from him, stalking across her room with a bowed head. Zevran was the answer to one of her problems. He could stop the Antivan Crows from coming after her again, and it never hurt to be close with the Antivan Crow grandmaster…

"Yes?"

"Zevran," the Warden paused at the window. "I…want a reason to visit Antiva." There was silence behind her, for so long that the Warden thought that Zevran might have left. But she could see Zevran in the window's reflection, and so she knew that wasn't the case.

"What are you asking of me?"

The Warden pressed her forehead to the glass of the window. "Something that I should not. Something that I'm ashamed to ask."

"You have never asked anything of me before…" He licked his lips and frowned. "On any other day," Zevran turned to the vanity and began to play with the small objects that littered its top, "I'd indulge in these riddles. But I think it may be best for both of us if you speak plainly, hm?"

"I should not ask you," the Warden pulled herself from the window and moved back to Zevran, her boots heavy on the floorboards, "to return to the Antivan Crows, to lead them, because I know it is something that you do not want. And I am ashamed to ask it of you, because you will have to do it alone."

While Zevran did not look disgusted by her words, his tone betrayed his displeasure. "And you ask me to do this for what? Peace of mind?" While the idea of leading the Antivan Crows was not _unappealing, _it was not something that Zevran personally considered as one of his goals.

"Peace of mind? Yes. Security? Yes. I have been on the sharp end of Antivan swords twice now, and I will not abide it a third time."

"There are other ways of gaining favor with the Crows than just having the Grandmaster in your pocket," replied Zevran, hinting in his pragmatically sensible way that tribute was one way to hold the Antivan Crows at bay. And there was also the piece of advice he'd tossed her way before, about how sometimes it was best _not_ to make enemies that were powerful enough to use the Crows.

"That is true. Unfortunately, I am quite poor, and I make the wrong first impressions with the wrong people." A sheepish smile heralded an equally sheepish chuckle. "Sometimes before I've even met them."

Zevran raised both eyebrows at her response. His odds of success in leading the Crows were no better than her odds of success in staying on their good side, if there indeed ever could be such a thing. At least, Zevran noted, she had the decency to look as ashamed as she felt. He'd never seen the Warden in such a state before. One moment she was touching him, the next she was pulling away as if the touch burnt her, and all the while her face was a war of emotions. It drew up in pain, it dropped low into a sad smile, it would draw up again except this time in self-deprecating humor, and then it would drop low again into a grimace.

"I would never ask it of you, if I did not think you could do it," the Warden continued quietly, taking the silent way he watched her as a sign of disapproval and doubt. She placed her hand on Zevran's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "And I would never ask it of you lightly. I would be in your debt."

"Assuming that you were," Zevran's eyes darted about the Warden's face, "how do I collect on it?"

The Warden raised her own eyebrows. "That would depend on the extent of your success, but also the request."

"You do not think I am entitled to a very large request?" Zevran stared at her meaningfully. He saw the Warden's face pale and her lips purse, before her agitation gave way to a dull, diplomatic gaze. He interrupted her as she opened her mouth to speak. "Lovely one, I admit, I am…quite surprised that you don't consider this to be compensation for my own Antivan Crow business. Many others might."

"Friends do not need compensation, Zevran. What happened with Taliesin needs no repayment. Besides, you stayed with me until we saw the Archdemon dead. That in itself could be payment enough. No," she shook her head, "we are even, you and I, or at least, we were. I would be forever grateful, and, as I said before, forever in your debt."

Zevran regarded her for several long moments, tilting his head this way and that as he did so. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but always halted himself with a press of his finger to his lips. When at last he did speak, it was with the quiet, self-assured voice that Zevran had adopted during the last few days of the Blight. "I will do this."

He was not the same man who had been sent to kill her. He was still not a "good" man. He was not the "best" sort of man. Doing this would not make him morally any better, but it would allow him the chance to be the player of pieces, rather than a piece himself, and it would allow him the opportunity to help take care of the woman who had fast become his closest friend. It was not _exactly _what he wanted, but then Zevran was not quite sure exactly what that was either. Freedom was a cage even for Crows, but at least he knew which master he was serving.

A smile, like the flickering light of a candle just lit, spread across the Warden's face. "You are too good to me."

"No," Zevran shook his head, "Mmm, not really."

"Well," the Warden gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. "Even so, I look forward to visiting Antiva. I have fish chowder to try, and leather boots to buy."

Zevran gave her a slow smile. "Only the best for you, dear Warden."

"Are you," the Warden clasped her hands in front of her, "staying for Celene's party?"

The Antivan shook his head. "As much as I love parties, I think I will have to decline this one. Why? Are you without escort?"

"I hadn't thought about it." The Warden licked her lips. "I suppose I could go with Loghain."

"Oh," Zevran winced, "it will not be much of a party."

"Maybe so. Why are you leaving for Antiva soon?"

Zevran gave an exasperated chuckle at her obvious nudge for more information. In his experience traveling with the Warden, Zevran had made a note of many of her habits. She was not one to beat about the bush when there was something on her mind. She was worried, and this was one of her many ways of showing it. "As you might suspect, I have much to do."

"I see," the Warden puckered her lips in a sour expression, "should I not expect to see you in the morning?"

"You will not see me for a very long time, lovely one." Zevran paused, holding the Warden's gaze, "If you ever see me again." Rising to the top of the Antivan Crows would not be easy, and the possibility of failure was enormous. It would likely be years before he saw the Warden again, if he even lived to see her at all.

And it was a truth that the Warden understood, and she couldn't stop her wince. "That is too ominous, even for you."

The Assassin shrugged. "It is the price we pay for this new suit, no? It may not be so bad. Who knows? I am very good at killing, and quite handsome. Perhaps it will not take much time at all."

His grim smile echoed itself on the Warden's face. "I hope so. If I couldn't resist your charms, no doubt anyone else could."

Zevran waved a hand down her body. "You are still fully clothed. You resist very well."

Pink dots of heat colored the Warden's cheeks. "My fear gets the better of me."

"Ah." Zevran quickly closed the distance between them, taking extra steps to counter the sudden steps away from him the Warden took. "You fear _me_?" He looked surprised. "I don't know whether to be horrified or flattered."

"It has just been a very long day." The Warden sighed. "A long week."

"I see," Zevran eyed the Warden's cooling bathwater, "I won't keep you from your bath any longer. I could do with one myself before I go."

"I am sure Coralie would oblige you."

Zevran nodded and moved to the door. "Give my regards to Leliana when you see her."

"When I see her, I most certainly will." The Warden shadowed Zevran to the doorway, hovering behind his elbow as he moved. When he stopped and looked up at her, eyes half-lidded in a gesture of amorous intent, the Warden could only sigh.

"Not even a goodbye kiss?" Zevran teased, seeing the mix of emotions across the Warden's features. His full lips pulled back into a grin as the Warden's face lowered, and her lips slanted down over his.

She kissed him quickly, without teeth and tongue, and felt more relief than passion. The interests of the Fereldan Grey Wardens, and her own safety, were at least secured. "Good night," the Warden said quietly, "Zevran."

"Goodnight, my sweet Grey Warden." Zevran shot her a wink, "I will write to you when it is safe to come visit Antiva."

"I desperately look forward to it. Into the wolf's mouth, Zevran," said the Warden, brushing a stray piece of the elf's blond hair away from his face.

He grinned at her in response. "And may he choke on me."

And with the flutter of leather clad feet, Zevran was gone.

The Warden shut the door gently and locked it, inhaling deeply the lingering scent of Zevran and his leathers. She propped her elbow on the doorframe and buried her fingers in her hair, scratching her scalp in thought. She was embarrassed about what had just happened: both the kiss and this new sense of obligation. Zevran had not exactly _absolved _her of debt as she hoped he might. She had stressed their friendship, and how she cared for him, but Zevran was more pragmatic than she had anticipated, and would likely not see this debt go unpaid. The Warden's mind was already racing through different outcomes and possibilities about when and how he might wish to collect it: did he desire her for a lover? Would he call upon the Grey Wardens? Would he eventually collect her life for his own? A small grunt from Dane dragged her out of her thoughts, and by the smell of the war dog resting on the bed they were soon trained on the idea of a bath.

And then she was _in _the bath, out of her armor, stripped of her smalls, and without her armaments. The water had cooled, and apparently had been cool for quite some time. Still, the cold was not unpleasant. Her flesh rose in tiny bumps and she shivered, but it was good to have a proper a bath to wipe away the sweat of the day. She washed her hair at her leisure, and scrubbed her skin vigorously with the wiry washcloth Coralie had provided, rubbing it until it was pink to the eye and warm to the touch. It was luxurious, and it lulled the Warden into a drowsy sense of comfort. From bath to bed she went, grabbing her sword and a clean shirt along the way, before she settled herself beside Dane.

She slept soundlessly through the night and only awoke in the morning at the sound of loud, impatient banging against her door.

"Open up!" yelled a voice across the door.

Dane gave a low, bored grunt and turned sleepy eyes to his mistress, who was roused a few moments later by a second set of knocking.

"Open it!"

"I'm not decent," called back the Warden drowsily, her voice rough from its temporary disuse. She gave Dane a gentle scratching behind his ear. "You will have to wait a few moments." She stood and moved to her trunk and then her armoire, plucking clothes to wear. Dane shifted off the bed and padded to the door, sitting himself in front of it and staring at the lock.

"I will _burn _this door _down!_"

The Warden let out a long sigh. It was Mara. She'd nearly forgotten about the girl…actually, in the commotion of yesterday she _had _forgotten about her. A good thing Mara had escaped or her mother had found her, because if it had been up to the Warden, the girl would probably have still been stuck in the wardrobe. "Your mother will be very angry with you, Mara, if you do that. You could set the entire residence on fire." She dressed quickly and gathered her sword from the bed. She belted it around her hips, and then reached for the comb on her vanity, running it through her sleep tangled hair with muttered cursing and wincing.

"You _hit _me on the head!" she shrieked back. "Open the door!"

"I will hit you on the head again if you keep threatening me." The Warden hissed as a particularly tough knot was pulled apart. "I will be out in a moment." She ran the comb quickly through the rest of her hair, finding only knots in the places she had slept.

"NOW."

The Warden smirked and placed her comb back down before slipping on her eye patch. Stalking to the door, she fingered the lock idly, tempted to leave Mara waiting, but was only prompted to action when she heard Loghain's voice.

"Put that fire out, girl!"

The Warden dashed to the tub, filled a shallow bowl she had used to rinse her hair with, and then dashed back to the door. She flipped the lock up, nudged Dane away with her foot, swung open the door, and splashed the water onto the growing fire of Mara's hands. The magical fire fizzled away and Mara's face was one of shock and surprise.

"You put it out!"

"You are," said the Warden, slipping out the door and grasping Mara's arm firmly in her hand, "a menace. It is time to speak to your mother."

"I already _spoke _with her!" shrieked the squirming mage, trying to pull herself out of the Warden's vice like grip. "She already _knows._ She knew! And she never TOLD me!"

Loghain caught Mara's free arm, his keen eyes having seen the small glimmer of an electric current run up and down her fingers. "Just go quietly."

"I would rather DIE than go!"

Dane circled behind Mara and nudged her rear with his head.

"Goodness, Mara," the Warden gave a weary sigh and gently tugged Mara towards the stairs, carefully leading her down them. "It is just your _mother._ I would _love _to see my mother," she said quietly, "I'd give any opportunity to see her again."

This stilled Mara for a few moments, but not for long. However, it did buy the two Grey Wardens and Dane enough time to alert Mara's mother, Coralie, to their presence.

The slender, dark-haired woman was kneeling in front of the fireplace. In front of her was a bright yellow cloth, upon which rested two ornately carved daggers. They had hilts that were shaped like a bird's wings, and their blades were wickedly curved. She was toying with a sharpening stone, but stopped and looked over her shoulder at the sound of voices. She raised an eyebrow when she saw her daughter trapped between Loghain and the Warden. "Yes?"

"It seems Mara is out for vengeance," said the Warden. "She tried to burn down my door. She is quite talented in the magical arts." The Warden had never said much to Coralie, except for general pleasantries and requests. It still surprised her that the small, seemingly unassuming housekeeper was in fact a Grey Warden.

"She _could _be, yes." Coralie smiled. "Right now she's just raw, untapped power. Undisciplined."

"_Mother._"

"My Mara. My little fire." Coralie dropped the sharpening stone and stood. She ran her palms over her leather clad thighs. "I'm so sorry she troubled you, Warden."

"Oh, it was fine. I just didn't want her burning down our home…"

"I am _right _here!"

"So you are," Coralie approached her daughter and ran a thumb over the girl's cheek.

Both Loghain and the Warden took respectful steps away from mother and daughter, Dane following closely behind his mistress as if he were afraid she'd leave again. Loghain turned to look at the Warden, who had backed away nearly the full distance of the room. She watched the interactions between the Grey Warden and her daughter with a covetous gaze. Her eyes were both sad and jealous, drinking in the sight of something that was lost to her. They roamed over Mara's shy, but proud, defiance of her mother, and Coralie's rather bored, and all-knowing manner. The mother was pragmatic where the daughter was a dreamer, with both completing the other.

The Warden was startled when Coralie turned her face to her. "I do not suppose you have any friends, Warden, who would be willing to take on Mara as an apprentice? As respectable as Serge's magic is I do not think blood magic is a path my daughter should take."

"I know many mages in the Fereldan Circle," the Warden frowned in thought, "no…apostates though. No free ones, anyway. Our Circle Tower is in the process of being liberated from the templars, but I suspect that isn't something Mara would want."

"I am _right _here," grumbled Mara, crossing her arms over her chest. "You can talk _to _me."

"Ah," Coralie sighed, ignoring her daughter's complaining, "that is disappointing. I suppose that I will apprentice her to another mage, or Serge, if the case may be."

"What about Alaric?" suggested Loghain. "He is young, but is a capable healer. You were there yesterday; he helped put Serge back together again. Without him, he'd be in pieces."

"Mmmm," Coralie thought this over for several moments. "It is true, he is a bit young, but he is talented… Though," she shook her head, "I do not approve of the company he keeps. How he tolerates Flavius or Vidar is _beyond _me." She sighed. "But it is a better option than the alternative. It is a shame about what happened to Evraille. She would have been my first choice."

"She was _so boring, _mother."

"I could send you to your cousins in the Free March, and then you can tell me what boring is."

Mara was instantly quiet. The prospect of being with her cousins in the Free Marches seemed to be quite an appalling thought. She looked at her mother with wide eyes, begging her not to go, and when Coralie saw the look, rolled her eyes and wrapped an arm around her daughter.

The Warden's mouth was dry from the sight, but her tongue was still capable of moving. "Don't send her too far away, Coralie. She needs you."

"And I need her," replied the other Grey Warden.

The Warden didn't respond, her throat too tight to do so. Instead she only bobbed her head and turned from Coralie. She slipped out the door and into the morning sunlight, inhaling deeply the fresh air, with Dane trotting at her side. Loghain was only a few steps behind her, and together, the two made their way to the Grey Griffon for breakfast, and hopefully, a full debriefing with Andraste.

"There may be," said Loghain, "some things that you won't like hearing."

It took the Warden a few moments to compose herself enough to respond. "That sounds unpromising. And unfortunately," she picked up her pace, "that is true of most things."

Loghain quickened his step so that he could walk comfortably beside her. "I'll let Andraste weave her tale, and then you can have my opinion of it later tonight."

"In private?" the Warden quipped with a raise of her eyebrows.

Loghain smirked. "If you like."

"Very good."

The two entered the Grey Griffon, and while it was a great deal emptier than the last time they'd both stepped foot in it, none of the atmosphere had changed. There were still Grey Wardens inhaling their breakfasts and ordering more food, clinking their glasses together, and enjoying each other's company. A few Grey Wardens wore grim expressions as a reminder of the horrors of the divide they had just faced, but for the most part, those who were on the winning side didn't appear too stunned or shocked. Nothing could sate their appetites.

The Warden found a table while Loghain found them food. Dane rested his head on her knee, and she tickled the fur between his eyes. "You missed me, didn't you?"

Dane closed his eyes in response and slowly slid out his tongue to lick at the Warden's fingers.

"No, Dane," she chastised, "no dirty fingers before breakfast."

Dane licked her hand anyway.

"Dopey dog."

When Loghain returned, it was with three plates of eggs, ham hash, and coarse potato pancakes. He dutifully placed one plate on the floor for Dane, quickly removing his hand as the war dog pounced on his breakfast. Dane's usual custom was to growl at the food first and then launch an all out gastronomic assault. Today, however, he skipped his courtship, and Loghain was left recoiling with a rueful chuckle.

"I know it doesn't look like it, but I did feed him, you know."

"Of course you did," the Warden grinned and looked to her own breakfast, "You feed him when he isn't even hungry." She stabbed at the ham hash with one of the Grey Griffon's bronze-emblemed forks. "This looks delicious. I don't think I've eaten properly in days. Feast or famine, such is the life of the Grey Wardens."

"This compound certainly is not lacking in either regard," replied Loghain as he tucked into his eggs. He carefully slid one of them over a potato pancake, mindful not to break the yoke until it was in place. From the corner of his eye, he appraised the Warden's face. She appeared quite rested, and while he was pleased that she'd had the sense to buckle on her sword belt, he was less than enthused by her lack of shield and armor. It was probable that she would have worn it, had Mara not interrupted her rest. And if Loghain had seen her leave her room without it, and there had been no distracting little girls in the hallway, he would have dressed her in it himself.

After a few minutes of thoughtful silence eating her breakfast, the Warden spoke. "Now, tell me honestly, Loghain," the Warden took a bite of her hash before continuing, "What did she do in Ferelden?"

Loghain raised his blue eyes to her, and lowered the fork he was raising back to the plate. "She recruited more Grey Wardens and defeated an invasion of intelligent darkspawn." He raised it quickly and ate the morsel on its end, watching the Warden's response.

The Warden blinked, mouth partly open and fork raised to it. "…What?"

He licked at a stray crumb that hung to his lips. "She will tell it to you better than I can."

"Intelligent darkspawn sounds quite complex…" She looked between her breakfast and Loghain. "Who did she recruit?"

Loghain licked his lips thoughtfully. "Do you really want to hear this from me?"

The Warden narrowed her eye and lowered her fork. "I do."

"And remember, girl, I am just the messenger."

"I will remember."

Loghain inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He was partially amused at the circumstances that Andraste put the Warden in, having considered the messy situation over the course of the night. He considered Andraste to be very much a meddling Orlesian, and like all Orlesians, have a distinct sense for causing trouble. She had recruited a _Howe _into the _Cousland_ led Grey Wardens. No less, a son of _Rendon Howe. _That was a peculiar situation; Loghain hadn't realized or known that the man had another son other than Thomas. It had taken Loghain several days to riddle out the boy's mystery, searching his memories from the days when Maric was still king and Rowan was still queen…

He remembered that a few months after Cailan had been born there were rumors spreading across Ferelden that a certain Bann of Amaranthine had lost a firstborn son in childbirth. However, such rumors had died quickly. Apparently, the rumors had at least been partially true, but where the boy came from, and how he had come back to Ferelden were still unknown. Loghain wasn't eager to meet the boy, but he was curious about him, and Loghain was also curious to know if Seneschal Varel had any knowledge of the boy.

Loghain cleared his throat. "There are five new recruits waiting for you in Amaranthine: an apostate mage, a Dalish mage, a Legion of the Dead scout, Oghren, that dwarf you used to travel with…"

"_Oghren _is a Grey Warden?" The Warden's eye widened. "_How_?"

"The usual way," said Loghain with a smirk, "they put the poison in the chalice and then you drink it…"

"No," the Warden shook her head, "I didn't mean it like that. Why is _Oghren _a Grey Warden? He is…" she frowned, "he is not the sort of person that _I _might recruit."

"You'll have to ask Andraste yourself, because she didn't explain it to me." Loghain shrugged. "She just told me. I didn't have time to ask for details."

"Oh no?" the Warden raised an eyebrow. "That is unlike you."

"Forgive me," he replied dryly, "but there was a small insurrection happening at the time."

The Warden only nodded. "Fair enough. That was four. You said there were five?"

"I did." Loghain's eyes darted to the tavern and then back to the Warden. "The fifth recruit is a pickpocket and a rogue. Nathaniel Howe." He watched a variety of emotions play across the Warden's face. At first there was shock as her eye widened and her lips parted, and then there was disbelief in the sly cock of her head and squint of her eye as if he was joking. Then there was anger in the slow, simmering set of her jaw and purse of her lips.

"He bears relation?"

"To Rendon?"

She nodded.

"I believe so, yes."

"She said as much?"

"She hinted at it." Loghain sighed and pushed his plate away with a finger, appetite dwindling under the inquisition.

"You said," the Warden's voice was low and throaty and thick with acidic hatred, "that they would hide. That they wouldn't dare to show their faces."

Loghain rolled his eyes. "Well, _clearly _I was wrong."

She pinned him with a vicious gaze, quick to turn on an ally for knowledge of a family enemy. "Did you know?"

He pursed his lips in response to her accusatory stare. "Wipe that look of your face. Of _course _I didn't know."

The gaze softened, but was no less intense. "Would you have," she raised an eyebrow in challenge, "told me?"

"Aurora," Loghain rested his forearms on the table and spoke to her as candidly as he could, "if I had known that Rendon had other sons, you _also _would have known. Your father was close to Rendon. Why he never told him he had another son, and an older one for that matter, is beyond me. They are questions that we can't answer."

"He was probably plotting something," she hissed, "that vile and sick bastard."

Loghain only shrugged gain. "Who knows what he had in store? He's dead now, so we'll never know. It is best not to dwell on it."

The Warden made a face at that and turned to her breakfast. She pushed her pancakes around the plate and chopped at the egg with her fork. She didn't touch her food, choosing instead to chew on her bitter thoughts. After some length, she spoke. "We need to go back to Ferelden immediately."

Two figures sat themselves down on either side of the Warden.

"And why is that?" asked Andraste. "Are you homesick?"

Andraste was dressed in her fine, drake skin armor. It was well oiled and buffed, catching the smoky light from the windows and reflecting it in a smooth, glossy sheen. Her hair was bound in a pair of braids that she had pinned to either side of her head. Serge was attired similarly, wearing his finest robe. The layers of dark red fabric were lined with a thin trim of black fur, and the protective leather flaps that were sewn onto the robe's chest were carved with griffons. His hair hung loose about his shoulders, making him appear much more relaxed than the gaunt faced and shrewdly handsome Andraste.

"As I have heard it," the Warden slowly turned her head to look at Andraste, "it sounds as if I do not have much of a home to return to." There could be no such thing as "home" when there was a _Howe _around.

"Ah, so you told her about the Vigil then, did you?" Andraste raised a red eyebrow at Loghain, who was looking at the Warden with a hard stare. "A sad state of affairs, but we have left it in good hands. There should be at least a foundation wall when you return!"

"Loghain mentioned a little," lied the Warden, "but I'd like you to elaborate more about the state of my keep."

Serge chuckled at her use of the possessive.

"Your," Andraste began with some amusement, "keep, was destroyed. Its walls were battered down, doors ripped off their hinges, and houses burnt by a darkspawn invasion. The invasion has since been crushed, and reconstruction on the keep had been finalized before I left. It will take some years to be restored, but it will be in better condition than when I found it."

The Warden's jaw clenched: she should have been involved in the reconstruction of the keep. She should have had some say. What was worse, she should have been there to defend its people. "And what of the individuals who made their home there? What of Amaranthine City? The rest of the arling? Are the people safe?"

"Very much so. We made our final stand at Amaranthine City." Andraste looked pained, clearly reliving some painful experience in her mind. "The majority of the arling is in good condition. No doubt the people will be happier when you return. They were not so…welcoming…to an Orlesian."

"Unsurprising," replied the Warden. "Amaranthine is not known for its Orlesian sympathies, since it was once a major Orlesian outpost in Ferelden. They didn't give you too much trouble though, I hope?"

"Nothing that I had not seen before." Andraste smiled. "Now, I was told that the reconstr - "

"Maybe," Serge placed a gentle on the Warden's, "we should start at the beginning? I think our Warden Commander of Ferelden may want to know more about the darkspawn."

"Oh." Andraste swung her eyes to Loghain's, but his gaze was still locked on the Warden's face. "Yes, we probably should. Shall I come to tell you how I arrived at Vigil's Keep? It was quite dreadful." The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux spoke in a quiet voice, her sorrow sincere as she drew out her vowels. "I had sent my Grey Wardens ahead to the Vigil, needing to stay behind in Denerim a little longer. When I arrived, the Vigil was under siege. All my…Grey Wardens were dead, or missing."

The Warden bobbed her head in sympathy. "I apologize. I hadn't realized you'd lost everyone."

"I imagine if I had been there with them, things might have been different. But I was not, and I have been reassured that if I had been present, most likely I would be dead too." She sighed. "But the tale continues." Andraste related about how she had come to find the Seneschal, as well as Oghren and Anders.

"One moment," the Warden held up her hand, "I traveled with Oghren. He was with me at the final battle in Denerim, and before I left he said he was considering a position in Alistair's army. He wanted to be an honest man for Felsi. _What _was he doing at the Vigil?"

"Looking for a fight," Andraste grinned, "and you."

"And you _indulged _him?" The Warden shook her head in disbelief. "You did a terrible thing."

"The Grey Wardens are a haven for those who run." Andraste gave an elegant shrug, her leather armor not even creaking at the movement. "And I would have been a fool to refuse such a capable fighter."

"He didn't have to run from anything. He _had _everything."

"He did not seem to me to be a man who had everything. A lover and a child on the way is not - "

The Warden nearly fell out of her chair. "A _child?_ _On the way?_"

Serge was smiling. "What was the delightful expression you told me?"

"Ah," Andraste shared it, "a 'nugling.' I believe that is what he called it."

The Warden muttered several curses that earned her a stomp on her foot from a disapproving Loghain. He, for whatever reason, didn't think it appropriate for her to speak in such a manner. As her father had done, he'd always chastised her for cursing. "That cowardly bastard."

"Something to discuss with him when you see him again, yes?" Andraste placed a hand on her shoulder. "You could even move them to the Vigil, if you think it would do him some good. You can turn Amaranthine into a proper Grey Warden compound."

"I may very well do that."

Andraste only inclined her head before beginning her tale anew. She told the Warden of many things, of coming across Sigrun in the Deep Roads, of the passages below Vigil's Keep, of her distrust of the Banns and the troubles of being Orlesian. She spoke of the final battle in greater detail, and of Kristoff-Justice, who had left with Aura to make a living elsewhere, far from the Grey Wardens. She spoke of Velanna, the Dalish mage who had nearly killed her and the fast friendship she had won with the woman. And she spoke of the prisoner in the Vigil's dungeon. "Nathaniel Howe."

The Warden held her tongue, as did Loghain, and both Fereldan Grey Wardens waited for the Orlesian Grey Warden to continue.

"Our first meeting was quite curious," said Andraste slowly. "He was disappointed that I wasn't you. As he explained it to me, he said he had come to kill you,"

"And I would have been ready for him," replied the Warden evenly, grey eye stony.

"I, ahah," Andraste chuckled at the Warden's quiet posturing, the way her back had stiffened and chest puffed out was not lost on the observant Orlesian, "have no doubt you would have been. Now, Aurora," and she said this in a motherly fashion, as the Warden's superior in experience and age, "When we join the Grey Wardens, we leave our past troubles behind us. Enemies become brothers and sisters in arms. There must be peace between you. You must accept him."

"He arrived at the Vigil to kill me." The Warden let a thoughtful pause linger before she continued, "I suspect you may be lecturing to the wrong Fereldan. T'was not _I_ who sought _him_ out."

"Fear not, I have had this conversation with him." Andraste quickly looked to Serge and then to Loghain, before once more looking at the Warden, "I do not know what passed between you two, though I _had _heard some interesting rumors in Denerim. Still, I have done what I can to try and make him see reason and stay his hand and temper; but ultimately, Nathaniel Howe's fate is yours. If you seek to provoke him, or to give in to his own provocations, he will likely die. It would be your right and duty," she said stiffly, "as Warden Commander to execute him if he tried to harm you. You must brook no insurrection, no insubordination. However, it is _also _your right and duty to protect and care for your Grey Wardens. You need not be their friend, but you must come to know them, and to help them grow. Heal them."

"I was unaware," Loghain's interrupted, "that we were a branch of the Chantry."

Serge threw Loghain a wink from behind a lock of dark hair. "We are warriors as well as wet nurses, or did you not read the charter?" He chuckled at the look he received in response. Serge slipped his foot to Loghain's under the table, but it was the Warden who went bright red at the incantation.

"_Serge_," said the Warden quietly, "no _flirting._"

"You are as red as my hair!" Andraste ran the backs of her fingers down the Warden's cheek. "Quite becoming on you. But we deviate too much from the topic at hand. As I was saying, Nathaniel Howe's fate is yours to decide. You can either be his undoing, or you can be his savior. It is up to you. You may do with him as you wish. I have conscripted him, and he has promised me that when you return he will not take arms against you. However, that is his promise to _me, _which may not carry much weight considering I am in Orlais and you are in Ferelden. Believe me; it is quite easy to forget your promises when temptation is near."

While Nathaniel Howe was a great worry of the Warden's, there was perhaps one issue that surpassed even _him. _"Why did you not take your recruited Wardens with you? They are, after all, _your _Grey Wardens." The Warden was returning home to a keep full of strangers, and people who probably thought she had _abandoned _them in their time of need. She would not be returning to a welcoming, warm home. She would not even be returning home. She couldn't even claim to have Cauthrien's allegiance, because she was Loghain's. There was not a single person at the Vigil, not even the Seneschal, who she could call her own.

Andraste looked surprised by the question. "Ferelden needs _some _Grey Wardens, don't you think? Besides, they were happier to stay at the Vigil than travel. I extended the offer, and they declined."

Loghain raised a thick eyebrow. "And you expect them to remain without a leader?" Without some sort of unifying force, men at arms often scattered. He'd seen it enough during the Rebellion.

Andraste smiled. "Varel is a capable commander in my absence, as is Cauthrien, and Garevel. Together, they will keep vigil over the Vigil. Ferelden is quite safe. Did I miss anything?" She said this more to Loghain than anyone else. Her green eyes lingered on his features, her eyebrows raised in both question and prompt.

"That is about what you told me," said Loghain carefully, mindful of the look the Commander of the Grey of Orlais was giving him. "If I remember anything, I will of course tell my commander."

Andraste nodded slowly. "Very well. I am sure that whatever I have missed will come to you. Sooner." She stared at him meaningfully. "Rather than later."

Loghain only gave a terse nod.

"Well," Andraste gave a small sigh of contentment, "I think that about covers my experiences with the newest Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Do you have any questions for me about them before I tell you of the Mother and the Architect?"

"Zevran," the Warden said. "You brought Zevran with you."

"Oh! Of course, Zevran arrived from Denerim with Leliana shortly after the battle at Amaranthine. We were not at the Vigil long before we made our way to Val Royeaux. Don't you worry," Andraste's freckled face turned upwards into a smirk, "I have not conscripted either of them."

"_Leliana _is here too? Where is she? I haven't seen her!" The Warden sent Loghain a dark stare for not having told her. Loghain only shrugged at her. There hadn't been time.

"She is currently on assignment," was Andraste's vague response. "I am sure she will be back soon."

The Warden stifled an unhappy grunt. "What are the Grey Wardens in Ferelden like?" she asked. "You told me of meetings and circumstances, but nothing of temperaments. What should I expect? How should I handle them?"

"Ah," Andraste licked her lips in thoughts. "Well, no doubt you have a very different touch than I do. But I will share with you my observations. I will not speak of Oghren, since I think you know him better than I, yes? But I will tell you of the others. Anders," she said with a small laugh, "is cheeky. I like him. He reminded me very much of my tracker, Tomas. He is glib to a fault, and quite fickle. I think he strikes me as very feline; he comes and he goes without much of a care. He left twice to carry on his own adventures, and returned within a few days. I think you will like him. Or if you do not, you will at least find him very talented. He is a superb healer."

"And he is not," added Serge, "a blood mage."

"No indeed," agreed Andraste. "Though I can think of times when I had wished he was. Now," she spoke thoughtfully, "Sigrun is trouble, but delightfully miniature trouble. For a casteless dwarf in the Legion of the Dead, she is quite charming. Plucky. She charges into battle grinning, and leaves battle grinning, and wakes up grinning, and probably goes to sleep grinning too. But I think she is hiding a deep sorrow. But that is for you to discover. She is another that you will like." Andraste patted the Warden's arm. "Velanna will likely be harder to get along with. She is abrasive, almost to a fault, but possesses a childlike innocence when you chip away her smelly, Dalish bark. And I say smelly not because she is elven or Dalish, but because she smells like wet earth and rot. Most unsettling."

"Your poor, delicate senses," remarked the Warden, teasing the other woman.

"An Orlesian curse," replied Andraste with a great sigh.

Loghain rolled his eyes and reached his hand under the table to find Dane. Dane dropped his head into Loghain's palm, eyes closing as the Second Warden of Ferelden scratched his chin. Dane had been listening quietly to everything, and had become very much accustomed to the Grey Wardens around him.

"She likes to be outside, and may disappear for a day or two at a time into the woods. But she always returns. She does not like being underground, which is difficult when you are a Grey Warden, but she will not disobey you if you ask it of her. And Nathaniel," Andraste watched the Warden's face for a reaction to the name, and finding none, continued on, "is not unlike your second, Loghain."

The Warden raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"You do not believe me now, but when you see him, you know it will be true."

In response, the Warden made a noise of disapproval. "You mean to tell me that when I look upon Nathaniel Howe, I will see an honorable, if not slightly taciturn man, who would lay down his life for Ferelden and fellow man? I doubt this."

Andraste appeared to be taken aback by the vehemence at which the Warden spoke. Apparently, she took it as an insult to compare Loghain and Nathaniel, and Andraste made a note of this. Loghain, however, did not appear to have taken offense. But he was staring at the Warden in a curious mixture of something that looked to be approval and…affection. "May I be blunt and have no one take offense?"

"Whatever you say," the Warden said in a soft voice, "I will most likely be offended. Do not try and compare Nathaniel _Howe _to Loghain _Mac Tir. _Just tell me of the boy."

Serge sent Andraste a look behind the Warden's head, suggesting it was better to abandon the current course of action. He canted his head at his commander, who slightly canted her head back at him. As he had been tickled when she had used the possessive regarding Vigil's Keep, so too was he amused by her use of the word 'boy.' Nathaniel was a good handful of years older than the slip of the Warden Commander, but sometimes even Serge was fooled by her age. She certainly did not carry herself as a young woman, losing her flirtatious graces and soft expressions when in the presence of others. He suspected she was twenty going on sixty, or something equally absurd. Truly, Serge marveled, it was amazing what war and hardship could create.

"Nathaniel is an intense, dark young man," Andraste explained, "he is deeply disturbed about what has happened to his family, and that is in no small part to his own experiences with them. It is not my place to speak of them, since he told them to me in confidence and friendship, but know that his idea of his father is not so different from yours, Aurora. He has bitter, melancholy moments, and keeps to himself. I suspect that when you return, you will find him in the company of Anders, since those two seemed to be coming to a sort of friendship as I was leaving. But then again, do not be surprised if you see him by himself. He does not trust easy, but when he does trust you, his friendship is a rare and precious thing."

The Warden chewed on her bottom lip, eye narrowed as she considered the image that Andraste had presented. It _did _sound a little like Loghain. Almost. "I will keep that in mind." She halted her next words, thinking that perhaps she would sound too insincere if she commented that she looked forward to gaining his friendship. In truth, she had yet to decide what to do with him, and how Fergus would react, as there was much more at stake in her dealings with Nathaniel Howe than just harmony within the Grey Wardens. No doubt Alistair would probably find the entire situation amusing, and pick out the parallel to his hatred of Loghain's conscription. But if there was one thing the Warden wanted, it was to handle the conscription of a hated enemy better than Alistair had. "Now," she moved the topic of conversation along, not wanting to dwell on the Howe any longer than she had to, "tell me of the darkspawn. How could they invade Ferelden when I slew the Archdemon?"

"It is a very curious phenomenon," agreed Andraste, "and one that we discovered almost too late. Tell me," Andraste placed an elbow on the table and leaned her weight on it, "did you ever dream of the Architect?"

The Warden frowned. "Who?"

"The Architect. He was a well spoken, slender creature. Darkspawn in origin, but intelligent. He wore a mask," Andraste's hand came up to cover the top half of her face, "here. It was gold, and pointed."

"No," the Warden shook her head, "I never dreamed of him."

"Strange that Loghain did," Serge mused, "and you did not."

The Warden shot Loghain a curious stare. "Perhaps he feared me. I did slay the Archdemon, after all."

"Given what he intended to do, I do not think that is the case." Andraste gave a flutter of her eyelashes to indicate that it didn't matter. "Whatever the reason, the Architect was trying to stop the Mother. More to the point, he was trying to create more intelligent darkspawn like himself."

"The Mother? Please," the Warden requested, "one creature at a time."

"The Architect was a darkspawn," Andraste explained. "He discovered a way to make his brethren intelligent. He used the blood of Grey Wardens in a mockery of our own Joining ritual. He wanted to make more like himself, wanted to give them freewill and break the hold of the Archdemon. He performed," she shuddered, "experiments. He was blurring the line between what was normal and what was blighted. I cannot comprehend the full depravity of his actions, but I know that whatever it was we found him doing in his labyrinth, it had to be stopped. The sickness could not be allowed to spread. The Blight is not meant for this world."

"And you stopped it? You killed him?"

"I did. With the help of Kristoff, Velanna, and Nathaniel. We put an end to his madness, and the madness of his creations. His children. Darkspawn like the Mother." Andraste stuck out her tongue in disgust. "Broodmother. A _human._"

The Warden's mouth opened in horror. It was the thing that likely awaited all female Grey Wardens who did not find death in the Deep Roads before the darkspawn found them. It was the Unmaking, and something that few Grey Wardens wished to speak of.

"The Architect had 'freed' her from the hold of the Archdemon, but it had driven her mad. She hated him, as she hated herself." Andraste shook her head sadly. "She created an army of her own darkspawn, and was intent on destroying not only him, but us as well. We killed both of them, and a good portion of their forces. However, I will not lie, there are more hiding out there. Whether they are intelligent or not I am unsure, but they are lurking in the hills and holes of Ferelden. It will be one of your duties to get rid of them."

"And like cockroaches," added Serge, "they will just keep coming back. Always do they keep us busy, yet quite good fun hunting them down, I find."

"Not to mention we still have to clear out the remnants of the Archdemon's horde." The Warden bowed her head. "We have our work cut out for us, at least for a few years."

"And you will also have some assignment or two from the First Warden, don't forget that." Andraste gave a small hum. "This reminds me, I have a letter for you to give him when you arrive in Weisshaupt."

The Warden nodded. "Answer me something, Andraste. How did you know there was something wrong in Val Royeaux? It seems you arrived just in time."

"That was mostly coincidence that I arrived when I did. The tip off was the mail, of course." Andraste smiled at Serge. "If Serge does not respond to my letters, then I know something is wrong. And if I do not respond, then he knows likewise. It was obvious that Marcus had been subverting our mail, since Serge tells me he received none of my letters, and I received none of his. It is one tactic that you might consider using if you two are ever parted from one another for a length of time."

Both Loghain and the Warden opened their mouths to respond, but were silenced by a chorus of trumpets. Their noise in the square outside the Grey Griffon interrupted conversations and silenced all the Grey Wardens within. The Swan of Orlais had sung, and she demanded attention. The Empress would not be denied.

* * *

_Oh my goodness, we are back! Sorry for the long delay there, but life has been incredibly busy. In fact, it is STILL busy, but is mellowing somewhat. I suspect things won't be smooth sailing for another couple of months, but I should have time for writing now. _

_This is actually Part I of a massive chapter. I thought it best to split it up, however, and give you guys something to read. Chapter 31 will be the Masquerade and the Glorious Reconciliation, of which the latter has been written. Interlude X is next, and will hopefully be done by this weekend. Maybe. Hopefully. After I get done reading the mountains of fiction I've missed. I don't know if I'll ever catch up!_

_Thank you all for sticking with the story, and I hope my absence didn't drive too many of you away. Fanmix has been woefully neglected, but is updated up to Chapter 29. _


	40. Interlude X

**Interlude X: Maric's Waltz **

_The night air was sweet on Loghain's face as he left his tent, filled with the fragrant perfume of the forest and the smoke of the campfires as the rebel army settled down to camp for the evening. Rendorn Guerrin had brought them deep into the woods to keep them out of the way of the Orlesian forces that were thick in this part of Ferelden. They had been harrying supply trains that were coming from Orlais and the remaining Western bannorns, and had quickly outstayed their welcome when a large force of cavalry had arrived. Using the Orlesians' arrogance against them, they'd managed to lure the Orlesian knights into a narrow ravine at the outskirts of the forest, and had slaughtered them easily as their horses bucked against the ravine's walls and their shields clashed with each other in the tight spaces._

_Not only had the skirmish been a success, but it had also bolstered the rebels' morale. Where they had encountered only resistance and handfuls of Orlesian infantry, that day they had managed to clear out a good amount of cavalry. Better yet, they had now acquired twenty horses and were on their way to establishing their own mounted fighting force (minus Maric, who couldn't ride a horse to save his life). It was as good a time to celebrate as any, and as Loghain could see, the army was well on its way to doing so._

_The tents that had been pitched in the gloom and the small fires that broke it were circled by cold, wind-bitten, but happy men and women. And amongst these figures, weaving his way through crowds and slapping his comrades on the back, was Maric. The soon-to-be King of Ferelden was out making his rounds with his soldiers, Rowan trailing behind him with an amused expression as he shared jokes with men and women who were once bakers, cobblers, and bankers, now all having taken up arms to drive out the Orlesian invaders. Every so often, Rowan would stop to shake hands with knights she knew or smile obligingly at shield maidens who praised her for her strength._

_Loghain turned from the spectacle and set about the task of finding suitable kindling for his own fire. He was on his knees, hands buried in dry leaves and pine needles when Maric grasped his shoulder and knelt beside him._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Getting things for a fire," replied Loghain, more brusquely than he meant. "You can help, if you like."_

_Maric did as was suggested, scrounging in the leaves and feeling for suitable kindling. To Maric, all dead plants felt the same, and he shoveled together a large pile of leaves. "Do you mind if Rowan and I pitch our tents beside yours?"_

_"Of course you can. It amazes me that you still ask me that every night."_

_"Just trying to be polite."_

_Loghain grunted. He reached forward and grabbed a few twigs that were mercifully dry. Most of the underbrush was still damp from yesterday's rain, though Loghain noticed that such a thing escaped Maric's notice. He had a growing pile of wet leaves between his knees. "Maric…"_

_"Yes, Loghain?" Maric wiped his dirty gauntlets against one another._

_"The leaves are wet. They won't be useful in a fire."_

_Maric looked at the leaves. "Oh." His lips drew back into an embarrassed smile. "I'm really quite worthless when it comes to anything remotely related to the outdoors."_

_Loghain chuckled and dashed Maric's pile of leaves apart with a quick swat of his hand. "Made for palaces and pillows, not campfires and the woods."_

_"Yes, yes, I know." Maric let out a sigh of long-suffering patience. "No need to rub it in, Loghain."_

_"Someone has to keep you humble, Maric." Loghain gestured to the piles of kindling he created. "Just take one of those piles and bring it to the edge of the camp. It should be sufficient to last us through the night."_

_"Did you clear a spot for the fire?"_

_"You know me, Maric." Loghain stood, carrying with him the twigs and branches he had collected, as well as a handful of moderately dry leaves in each fist. "I am a creature of habit; it is the first thing I do before I set up my tent."_

_"I think I'd set up the tent first and then make my campsite."_

_"And that's why no one will ever willingly let you choose where we stop. You'd have us," Loghain carefully placed his handfuls of leaves and twigs into the hollow he had dug into the earth, "set up our tents and then clear out the area, only to find that we were in the middle of a swamp."_

_Maric dropped his own armful of kindling next to Loghain's feet. He poked a dirty finger at Loghain's shoulder. "It only happened once."_

_Loghain raised an eyebrow in amusement. "And it will never happen again."_

_"Hmph." Maric gave Loghain a mock-indignant glare before making his way back to the kindling piles. These leaves, twigs, and needles he piled beside a boulder that was jutting its way up from the ground. Gingerly, Maric took a seat on the edge of the large rock and watched Loghain hunch over the fire pit. In one hand, Loghain held his hunting knife. In the other, he had the flint he kept in his travel pack. He struck his dagger against the flint, tiny sparks of light showering from the contact. The kindling Loghain had piled began to smoke, and then glow, as the fire began to build. A few gentle, if not judicious, gusts of air from Loghain soon had the thing burning merrily. "The rest of the kindling is here." Maric tapped the pile with his foot when he had Loghain's attention._

_Loghain looked over his shoulder to his tent, and then back to Maric. "Where's your tent, Maric?"_

_Maric shrugged. "I have no idea. I suspect Rowan does though."_

_In what had been another disastrous and embarrassing turn of events for the Orlesians, the rebels had stolen the tents of several visiting Orlesian nobles. These nobles, thinking themselves quite brave and well versed in the art of the sword, had decided to visit this new country that they considered already theirs. The nobles had gone to bed comfortable and dry, and awoken to the fresh air of dawn and the rays of the sun on their face. All their guards had been quietly slain, their possessions stolen, and they were left in the wilderness nearly naked, defenseless, and without their livery covered boudoirs. Such a thing was Maric's idea, of course, and he rarely involved Loghain in such antics. Loghain would just slay them, but Maric wanted to prove a point to these men who thought themselves superior in prowess as well as culture._

_Maric was using one of the tents liberated from these petty and pompous men, even though he hadn't taken it for such a purpose. Still, the largest and grandest of the tents had become Maric's, because as Ferelden's monarch, he apparently deserved the luxury. Four or five people could sleep comfortably in the tent alongside him if he so chose and it looked as though something like that might happen in the future. Loghain's tent was barely holding itself together. The patches that Rowan had helped him sew into the holes were coming apart, and there were new rips and tears from the hasty way in which it was often pulled down. A few more marches, and Loghain would probably be forced to sleep in Maric's tent, and Maric would be forced to suffer through Loghain's snoring._

_"You know," said Maric, considering something he hadn't before in the narrow spaces of the trees, "I don't think there's going to be enough room for my tent here."_

_"I'm sure you'll find yourself a nice swamp," Loghain groused back. He was warming his hand by the fire. "With as much space as you like."_

_"Far away from your snoring," Maric countered. "I could live with that."_

_"And removing me from yours too, while you're at it."_

_Maric shook his head. "I don't snore."_

_"Oh, you do." Loghain's smile was wolfish in the light of the fire. "Ask Rowan."_

_"Maybe I will."_

_"Ask me what?" The daughter of Rendorn Guerrin had arrived just at the sound of her name, carrying the tents and their various parts. Her strong arms supported their weight as easily as they did her weapons. From her appearance, it seemed she hadn't had the time to change out of her heavy armor. She had, like Loghain, been busy helping the men scavenge the dead bodies, saving Maric the trouble and the discomfort. She'd then also been busy taking a tally of the wounded and making preliminary preparations with her father about the army's next course of action. Her hair hung lank and dirty, matted with sweat and blood, her cheeks were smudged with soil, and her eyes were tired, but she looked radiant in the firelight to Loghain._

_Maric sighed. "Do I snore, Rowan?"_

_Rowan raised her eyebrows. "Do you snore?"_

_"Yes." Maric bobbed his head. "Do I snore? I don't think I do."_

_"Oh, Maric," Rowan gave a wry smile and gently lowered her bundle of tent paraphernalia to the ground. "I wish I could tell you that you didn't. You snore like a mabari."_

_Loghain looked pleased with himself across the fire. Maric had never seen a man who could look happy without smiling, but Loghain was such a man._

_"I told you," Loghain said._

_"At the very least," Maric frowned, "at the very least admit that he snores too."_

_"Oh, Loghain snores too," agreed Rowan. "Most certainly."_

_"Why are you listening to me snore?" Loghain raised a black eyebrow at her. "Don't you have better things to do? Like sleep?"_

_"Well!" Rowan was now kneeling beside the bundle of tent parts, and was pulling the poles from the mess, "I can't sleep with the snoring."_

_"Yes," Maric nodded, "I can imagine you wake yourself up."_

_Rowan blinked. "I beg your pardon?"_

_"Oh," Maric threw a sly look at Loghain, "you are pardoned. For your snoring."_

_"Maric, that is ridiculous." Rowan stood one pole up right, balancing it against the inside of her armored thigh, as she judged its height._

_"You are in good company, Rowan. All three of us snore."_

_Loghain watched an irritated expression run across Rowan's features. Tired from battle, most likely starving, and in desperate need of a wash, Rowan's patience would likely be sorely tried by Maric's ribbing. If she didn't skewer Ferelden's king with the tent pole, she might certainly beat him to death with it._

_"I do not," she replied in the most absent tone she could, "snore." She gently shook the pole, testing it for potential breaks and stability, before putting it to one side. She picked up another pole and did the same. The last thing she wanted for herself or Maric was the tent to collapse in the middle of the night._

_Maric smirked. "Of course you don't."_

_She gave a small smack of her lips before running her tongue over them. "I'm glad you see reason, Maric."_

_"I probably wouldn't admit to it either."_

_Loghain made himself look as innocent as possible by poking at the fire with the stick he had reserved for such a purpose. He hoped that the crackling of the flames and the shrill hissing of the pine needles as he shuffled them about wouldn't gain him the harsh look Rowan was giving Maric. Maric was, to his credit, smiling charmingly at Rowan. The smile was his way of telling her he was teasing, but Rowan did not appear to be softening under his youthful good looks. "Let me," said Loghain after letting the awkward silence that had grown between them linger for too long, "help you with that, Rowan. Where do you want it pitched?"_

_"I am crouching where I want my tent," she replied coolly. "Maric can pitch his tent in the nearest swamp."_

_Maric's mouth opened in protest. "Maker's breath, enough about the swamp! It was a mistake! I will never do it again, I promise!"_

_Rowan only grumbled something in response, which earned a chuckle from Loghain as he crouched beside her. He did as she did, planting a stick on the ground, resting it on the inside of his knee, and giving it a swift, firm shake. He found no structural faults in any of the wooden poles. After a few minutes, only the tents' respective tarps sat between the two. Maric's white tent and Rowan's more muted grey, chalky tent would fit right beside Loghain's faded yellow one, that is, if they could make room for all three. If Rowan insisted on sleeping where she was kneeling, Maric would have to set up his own camp elsewhere._

_"Aren't you going to move it?" asked Maric as he saw Rowan assembling her tent's frame._

_"As I said," Rowan blew a piece of curly hair out of her eyes, "this is where I'm sleeping tonight."_

_"Fair enough. Loghain..."_

_Loghain shot Maric a wary look. "What is it, Maric?"_

_"Could you move your tent?"_

_Feeling a bit like a trapped animal, Loghain looked once more to Rowan, who was regarding him with the glimmer of a smile on her lips. She enjoyed watching him squirm under Maric's requests, just as he enjoyed watching her squirm under them too. Not that either of them could deny Maric anything. Not only was he their liege lord and king, but he was also their friend. They were not only duty bound to protect him from harm, but also to protect him from himself on occasion. He was miserable on a horse, prone to drink when he fell into self-doubt, and possessed of a trusting nature that Loghain vowed would get them all killed one day._

_"Don't fancy the idea of sleeping around the rest of the army?" asked Loghain, unable to keep the sharp tone out of his voice. He didn't truly believe that Maric thought so little of the "common man" that he wouldn't mingle with them, but Loghain was always hesitant when it came to men and their claims of nobility. Orlesian nobles beat farmers with riding crops, and ate food in excess when people were starving, but then he'd also seen Fereldan lords sell out their kings and queens for scraps of favor, and sacrifice the common man when it was convenient. He'd nearly been one of those poor sods who'd been left to die, expendable because his blood wasn't laced with Calenhad, Dane, or Maker knew whomever else._

_"What? No," Maric chuckled and shook his head, "hardly. I would just hate to keep them up with my snoring. They've had such a long day; surely they deserve a good night's rest?"_

_Maric's self-deprecating humor was enough to soften Rowan's resolve, and with a small sigh beckoned for Maric to come join her and Loghain in the dirt. "Come get your tent, Maric. Loghain will help you set it up. Maker knows it takes three people to complete the task, but you two will have to do."_

_The king winked. "Loghain and I are worth at least four men combined."_

_"He's worth three, and you're worth one?" Rowan teased._

_"Three and a half," corrected Maric. He watched Rowan with some fascination as she went about setting up her tent._

_She crawled a few yards away from where she had been sitting and stretched out one leg, digging her toe into the dirt. She looked over her shoulder at where her foot was, and then extended her hand in front of her and made a mark in the earth. After measuring out the dimensions of her tent, she stood and went to the bundle of wooden poles. Hers being the shorter, they were easier to pick out. She moved these poles to her workspace, and then returned to gather the coiled rope and stakes that she had brought for it._

_Loghain gave a small grunt and gestured at the poles, indicating for Maric to do the same. He stood and mirrored Rowan's movements, marking on the earth where the tent would be pitched. He also marked where the various spokes and stakes would be laid, estimating their distance with keen eyes. Maric was somewhat mystified by the ease at which his two friends found camp life, but in the time since his mother's death, he'd learnt to tie a great knot and found himself useful at least that much. So when it was that Loghain gruffly passed him an end of rope, Maric obliged._

_Together, Rowan's, Loghain's, and Maric's tents formed a semicircle around Loghain's small campfire. Behind them, only a short distance away, more tents were pitched. Around the king's campsite blossomed tiny fires, each one ringed by tents and soldiers in his service. Protected on all sides by loyal Fereldan soldiers, Loghain felt it safe enough to leave Maric and Rowan and go acquire blankets from the supply cart. As all three of them were warriors on the frontline and forced into positions where carrying tents, blankets, and other wilder-living necessities was unfeasible, they kept their gear with the army's quartermaster._

_When Loghain returned, his arms filled with blankets and his shoulders carrying their saddlebags, he found Maric dancing. Rowan was perched demurely on the rock Maric had claimed earlier, and was laughing and clapping in time with the tune of a fiddle that was being played at one of the nearby campfires. Maric skipped and jigged, stomping his feet in time with Rowan's clapping and throwing his arms out wide into the air as he did so. Apparently, they had helped each other out of their heavy plate armor, for both were in their tunics and trousers, and Loghain thought he caught the glimpse of metal from behind a crack in Maric's tent flap._

_It was clearly a dance meant for two people, as there were times when Maric would extend his arm as if to an invisible partner and spin about in a circle, before giving a great bow and returning to his feet stomping and arm waving._

_Maric smiled when he saw Loghain, and gestured for him to put his burden down by his tent. "Put it down and join me!" His hair hung loose around his shoulders, giving the already cheerful king an even more carefree look._

_Loghain shook his head, skirting around the eager Maric to Rowan's tent, where he first lowered their bags and then their blankets._

_"Come now, Loghain," Maric sidestepped to his friend's side, his feet crisscrossing in time as he did so. "Surely you can dance!"_

_"I don't."_

_"You don't," asked Rowan curiously, "or you can't?"_

_"Both." Loghain shrugged, the leather of his jerkin creaking. "What does it matter?" He did not like the challenging glint of both Maric and Rowan's eyes._

_"Look at them, Loghain," Maric swept an arm over Loghain's shoulders and steered him to the edge of their small camp. Around them, the rebels were celebrating. Men were dancing and singing, some were playing a motley assortment of instruments while others were just clapping their hands to make a rhythm. "Look at them out there," said Maric with a wistful smile. "Just living. It matters to them."_

_Loghain frowned and shrugged away his friend's arm. "Don't be absurd. Me dancing has nothing to do with them."_

_"But it has everything to do with me!" Maric's hand was persistent and once more found its way onto Loghain's person. "I've never seen you celebrate a victory. You just sort of… well, you sulk, Loghain. You sulk even in victory."_

_"It isn't victory, Maric. Victory," he replied in a low voice, "is when they are all gone. Victory is when there are no more Orlesians in Ferelden. These skirmishes are just skirmishes. Perhaps they are the road to victory, but the end isn't even in sight yet."_

_"It isn't premature to have hope," Rowan scolded. She came to stand on Loghain's other side, though she kept her hands respectfully to herself. "We need every ounce of it if we are to succeed."_

_"You can't feed them on hope," Loghain gestured to the soldiers he fought beside, "you can't clothe them with it. It doesn't provide them armor against Orlesian swords or protect them from Orlesian arrows."_

_"But it can," and this Maric said with surprising gravity, "Make them crush an Orlesian's windpipe with their bare hands."_

_To this Loghain had no counter, since what Maric said was undeniably true. He'd seen it with his own eyes, after all, men and women with nothing but sharp fingernails and strong wills striking at their foreign invaders when unarmed and outnumbered. With nothing to say, he could only stare in a curious sort of silence at the revelry around him._

_"Weelllll?" Maric asked._

_"Hope has its uses." Loghain shot Maric a sidelong look. "Limited uses, I suppose."_

_"Ahah, as I thought." Maric clapped him on the back. "Now, to the dance?"_

_Loghain shook his head again and sighed. "Maric, I wouldn't even know where to begin."_

_Maric was stronger than he looked, and was able to maneuver Loghain with some gentle pushing and prodding back to the light of the fire. "That's easy enough to fix."_

_"You two really won't give up, will you?"_

_"That is correct," was Maric's cheerful response._

_Rowan was hovering just behind Loghain's shoulder, watching as Maric appraised his friend with a head to toe sweep of his eyes._

_"Do we keep the armor?" he asked her, to which she nodded her head._

_"Let's not make poor Loghain anymore uncomfortable than he is."_

_"Hard to do that," replied Loghain dryly, looking at her over his shoulder. Her eyes were bright in the shadows of the fire, and her lips were full and dark. He thought he saw her wink at him, but it could have been a trick of the light._

_"Now," Maric pursed his lips in thought. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order?"_

_"Oh yes," agreed Loghain, "please, go ahead and dance. I will just sit and watch."_

_Maric wagged a finger at him. "You'll get your turn, Loghain." He looked to Rowan. "Do you know the Maid's Waltz?"_

_Rowan raised an eyebrow. "That is hardly a waltz, Maric."_

_"That's why the name is so ironic!"_

_"Mmm, yes. I suppose." She sidestepped gracefully around Loghain so that she came to stand before Maric. Her fingers twitched by her sides, fingertips rubbing against one another as she watched Maric expectantly._

_Maric swept into a gallant bow and looked at Loghain, indicating that this was how one initiated a dance. "Do you wish to dance, Lady Rowan?"_

_A faint blush spread across Rowan's cheeks, and she nodded. "I would be very pleased, m'lord."_

_Loghain found it awkward to hear them address each other by such titles. Both Rowan and Maric had noble claims, but Loghain couldn't claim to be a "lord" or a "majesty." He was the son of a dead knight. Maybe he warranted a "ser."_

_"And would you like to lead? Or shall I?" Maric asked in earnest._

_"If you plan to be the teacher, you should lead. After all," Rowan looked at Loghain surreptitiously through her eyelashes, "I highly doubt he'll ever be led around the dance floor by another."_

_"Except maybe by my nose," he commented gruffly. "Get on with the dancing, so that I can see what punishment Maric has in store for me."_

_Maric straightened and offered Rowan his hand. She took it and stepped into him, letting Maric place a hand modestly at the top of her waist while she rested her free hand on his upper arm. Maric's head bobbed as he counted the clapping and measured the fiddling in his head. After a few moments of preparation, he sprang into the dance._

_Loghain had expected something much more regal and slow for Maric and Rowan, but the king and his betrothed were tangled in a face-paced dance that had their knees lifting, their chests heaving, and their cheeks rosy. They span and they swayed, rocking from side to side like a ship at sea before changing direction. Rowan's hair splayed across her face and caught in her mouth, catching on her dry lips as she smiled widely and laughed at the pace Maric put them through._

_"I don't think this is good for beginners!" she cried, grasping Maric tightly as they changed their course. "Something slower would be better!"_

_Loghain agreed and said as much. "Be easy on the farmer's son." He doubted very much he could do what they had just done, even with practice._

_"Oh, very well!" Maric pulled his hand away from Rowan's waist and sent her into a final spin before dropping into a low bow to thank her for the dance. "Thank you, Lady Rowan, for indulging me this evening. I regretfully must ask you to be my partner once again."_

_"And I regretfully accept." Rowan swept into her own bow, hair again falling into her face, and it was with an undignified exhale that she sent it puffing away. "Would you be so kind as to allow me to choose the dance this time?"_

_"Of course." Maric straightened his tunic as he drew himself out of the bow. "Choose away."_

_Rowan nodded and took several small steps towards Maric. She remained a respectful distance away, and extended her hand to him. Maric smiled and lightly took it in his own, lifting it above their heads before bending his knees ever so slightly. Rowan did the same, and together they took a small step backwards before sinking gently once more. They stepped around each other slowly, hands still lightly touching, until they came to stand where the other did. Maric waved his hand and dipped into a bow, while Rowan slipped into a soft courtesy. Turning towards Loghain, they touched hands once more and stepped lightly across the distance towards him._

_Maric's steps were slightly more flourished than Rowan's were. Where she moved forward in small, unobtrusive movements, Maric instead kicked out his heel and moved with a spring to his step. When they were an arm's reach from Loghain, they turned towards each other once more and repeated their earlier pattern of bowing and sinking before turning to the fire and dancing back._

_The movements were simple, and Loghain guessed he would at least be able to manage the basics. Bowing, circling, and walking were all things Loghain could do, but he doubted he could prance around like Maric, kicking out his heel and flourishing his wrist._

_After several more rounds of bowing, circling, and traveling, Maric placed a chaste kiss on Rowan's hand and ended the dance. "That is what my mother danced with Rendorn at her coronation," said Maric wistfully._

_Rowan didn't say anything in response; she merely smiled at Maric and absently rubbed the hand that he had kissed._

_"Easy enough, yes?" Maric turned to Loghain. "Please say yes."_

_"I suppose. Yes."_

_"Excellent!"_

_Loghain took an uneasy step back when Maric approached him, fluttering his eyelashes. "Maric, what are you about?"_

_"Oh, Ser Loghain," said Maric in a high voice, "May I have the honor of a dance?"_

_"Absolutely not."_

_"I will weep if you don't humor me."_

_Loghain looked to Rowan for help, distressed not only at the idea of seeing Maric weep, but also at the prospect of seeing him courtesy and prance as a maid. While Maric was not possessed of a large ego, his lack of one sometimes made Loghain feel quite awkward._

_Rowan seemed to take pity on him, having seen his hunted expression. She stepped quickly in front of Maric, dipping low into a courtesy. "The honor, Ser?"_

_And dancing with Rowan made him feel awkward too. "Err…yes."_

_Rowan raised an eyebrow at him, not moving from her courtesy. She was content to stare at him through strands of curly chestnut hair, which sent the hairs on the back of Loghain's neck standing._

_Maric gave a polite cough. "Yes 'what.'"_

_"Oh." Loghain rolled his eyes. "Yes, Lady Rowan."_

_Rowan rose at the correct address and stretched out her hand. Loghain gently took it and turned expectant eyes to Maric. Maric beckoned them closer to the fire, dancing in place as Loghain walked, kicking out his feet and point to them. "More flourish, Loghain."_

_"Let me get through the damn dance first."_

_"You're doing fine," Rowan assured, tilting her head towards him._

_Though Loghain moved stiffly, his posture and bearing was strong enough to convey a sense of gravity, rather than a sense of insecurity. His slow steps and rigid movements added a solemnity to the dance, which complimented Rowan's more demure movements than had Maric's flamboyant steps. Eventually, Maric gave up trying to get Loghain to loosen his posture. It became enough for him just to see his friend successfully complete each segment of the unending dance._

_And indeed, Loghain danced Rowan around the campfire for quite a long time. It was as if he'd forgotten how to end the dance. Rowan, with a supportive squeeze to his hand, took the opportunity to lean in as they moved away from Maric, and whispered in his ear how he should end it. Loghain's face drained of color at the suggestion, but he only gave her a swift nod._

_When at last they came to stand before each other once more and made ready to bow and courtesy, Loghain took one step forward and raised Rowan's hand to his lips. He did not linger on her battle-hardened and chapped skin over long, merely brushing his mouth over the back of her hand before releasing it and dipping into a low bow. Rowan echoed his movement with a curtsey and stepped back._

_Maric gave them wild applause. "That was brilliant! You were excellent, Loghain. Stiff, but you look very kingly. More kingly than me."_

_Loghain's smile was slight, but genuine. "You look like a deer being chased when you dance. Of course I don't look like you."_

_"And you haven't even seen the rest of the dances we know." Maric was beaming. "You're going to learn them all."_

_"I think I'll stick with the one I just learnt."_

_Maric shook his head. "Nonsense. When the Orlesians are finally driven from our home, there will be a grand ball in Denerim. The entire kingdom will be invited, and we'll dance to our victory and our hopes for the future. I will want you there, Loghain," he said meaningfully. "I will need you there."_

_A pained expression briefly crossed Loghain's features, though whether that was at the prospect of the dancing or the future, neither Rowan nor Maric could guess. "Let's get some dinner first," he said, "before we talk of more dancing."_

_As both Maric and Rowan's stomachs rumbled at the mention of food, neither of them was in a position to deny his suggestion. They followed him to the quartermaster and the camp cook, ready to fill their bellies with whatever rations they had for the day._

_And so after every Orlesian defeat, Rowan, Maric, and Loghain would take to their campfire that night and dance. First Maric would dance with Rowan, and then, on special evenings, Rowan would dance with Loghain, and on even rare occasions, Maric and Loghain would finally link arms and dance as only brothers in arms could do. With the throaty singing of Fereldan men and women, the plucking of fiddles, and the pounding of drums, and clapping of hands in the background, like elves in the woods they would dance for hours under the moon and stars. It was joyous, looked forward to, and lasted too little a time, for the joy and the dance ended with the flash of green eyes and the bounce of blonde curls. When Katriel came, everything changed. When Katriel came, the dancing stopped._

* * *

_And now we know where Loghain learned to dance, which is very important, since we will see him dancing in the next chapter! __Of which I know you are all eagerly waiting for. -Ahem.- Should get it out rather fast. Was surprised how quickly this chapter got written too, considering it has Rowan in it, and I have great difficulty writing her. Carefree Maric and Dour Loghain, on the other hand, are always a treat. _

_Much love goes out to Lady Winde, my beta. I hope your muses come back to you swiftly, and if there is ever anything I can do to help, you let me know!_

_Thanks also go out to the readers! I'm always tickled pink by your responses. __Hopefully, I am not the only one who had a good chuckle about Rowan pitching some tents? I had a good, long laugh. Too bad she wasn't pitching Loghain's. _


	41. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31 **

The Grey Wardens swarmed outside into the courtyard like a cloud of tired and wary bees. From all across their hive they came, all that remained of them anyway, to flock about the great war horses of the Chevaliers and the more slender horses of the two courtiers. In the thick crowd, the Warden was squashed between an angular Grey Warden with sharp elbows and Loghain. Every time the Warden in front of her shifted, she got a gutful of elbow, and so she shied closer to Loghain, pinning him to the door of the Grey Griffon. Dane nestled himself safely in the space between Loghain's legs and the door.

Of the five knights who came to the Grey Warden compound, all wore face obscuring helms except for Geoffroi. The courtiers were blowing away on their thin trumpets, letting long notes wail across the courtyard until all they Grey Warden murmuring fell into silence.

Geoffroi's voice was deep and commanding, his tone rich as silk as he spoke the Trade Tongue: "I have an order from the Empress."

The murmuring returned.

"She has," he continued, "commanded that each Grey Warden come to her at an allotted hour, beginning today, one hour's hence, and ending in three days time."

"And what, Good Ser," asked Andraste, pushing her way to the front of the crowd, "would require us to fill the Empress's time?"

"She would not say," he replied, "But if you are insinuating that she has something sinister in mind for you, I would put those fears to rest." He outstretched an arm and then swept it across the many Grey Wardens in front of him. "You have all earned your pardons. You have nothing to fear from the Empress, lest you have evil in your heart."

Loghain raised an eyebrow at the conviction of the man's words. "You can almost see the fire leaping from his eyes," he said dryly to the Warden, tilting his head so that his lips were by her ear.

"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," she replied back, turning her face towards him. The top of his nose brushed her temple, and she waggled her eyebrows in both emphasis of her statement and to tickle it.

"Says the stove."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

Geoffroi produced a long piece of carefully rolled parchment from a leather case at his hip. He unfurled it and lightly gripped the edges with his gauntlets. "I will now read aloud the names of the Grey Wardens who are to attend the Empress this day and the next. For those of you who are not called upon, I shall leave this list with Warden Commander Caron, and you may peruse it at your leisure."

The Warden opened her mouth to say something to Loghain, and shut it abruptly when she heard her name as the first on the list. She heard Loghain snicker behind her, and then hear that snicker end as quickly as it had come on when he realized his name had been called second.

"That is," she whispered, "what you get for being cruel."

"She's your friend," he responded back, "Not mine."

"I suppose we shall find out very shortly what she wants of us."

Loghain only grunted his response. He plucked at the Warden's tunic with the fingers of his gauntlets, pulling the fabric taut and then releasing it. The Warden ignored him and turned back to Geoffroi. The second time Loghain pinched her he pulled her skin into his grasp.

"Maker," she hissed. "Loghain, what are you about?"

"Do you intend to see the Empress like that?"

"No, of course not." She frowned. "I am hardly dressed to meet her."

"I meant your armor." Loghain was not going to let the Warden enter the palace again without a suit of armor in place. If that meant shoving her in her room and blocking the doorway of both Warden and Chevalier, then so be it.

"I know, and I understand. As soon as this crowd thins, we can dart back to our quarters." Trapped in a sea of Grey Wardens, it wasn't practical to fight her way back to her quarters just yet. She would have drawn attention to herself, and the effort would have been futile. If a Grey Warden didn't want to be moved, then they wouldn't be moved.

Loghain gave a nod of satisfaction at the Warden's words.

"Report to the palace gate before the next bell, Grey Wardens." With an imperious flick of his wrists, Geoffroi rerolled the paper and stuck his hand out towards Andraste.

Val Royeaux's Grey Warden Commander stepped forward to retrieve the list, hand reaching up to pluck it from the Dirigeant's gauntlet. She gave him a courteous nod before turning her back on him to address her Grey Wardens.

"Wardens," she called, "this list will be posted on the front door of the Grey Griffon. Take care to heed it." There was no need to add that disobeying the Empress's orders would only further weaken their position in Orlais. "Be punctual."

The courtiers raised their trumpets to their lips and let them bray for a few moments. Around them Grey Wardens shifted as the Chevaliers gripped their reins and began to nudge their horses into action. They thundered out of the courtyard with the clattering of hooves and were followed moments later by the breathless trumpeters.

"I need a nail and a hammer," Andraste yelled as she stalked towards the door to the Grey Griffon. The Wardens scattered before her, parting in the wake of her swaying hips and red hair.

As the Wardens began to draw away from the courtyard, the Warden, Dane, and Loghain made a stealthy escape towards their little apartment. Loghain had not managed to flee without earning a long, hard look from Andraste, but he shrugged it off quickly as he tried to keep pace with the Warden's quick steps.

"What do you think she wants?" the Warden asked as they approached their home, "To talk to us?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"I don't think she means us any harm. She could have already done that." The Warden gave a sigh of resignment as she opened the door. "And I see her first; surely that can be only a good sign?"

Loghain made no move to respond, merely followed her up the stairs and into her quarters. He helped her put on her armor in thoughtful silence, sitting on the edge of her vanity stool, her foot between his knees, as he fastened first one leg plate, and then the other. Of all the mundane tasks they did for one another, Loghain had forgotten how enjoyable it was to help her into her armor. His muscles and fingers ached afterwards, but it was always worth it to see her body shielded from angry blades and pricking arrows. Dane watched them approvingly from his position on the Warden's bed.

The Warden, meanwhile, was fixing her hair. What had been a suitable coif for her comrades was not proper for the Empress. Some propriety had to be maintained. She settled on a simple, thick braid. Its weight was an unfamiliar, but welcoming, friend down her back. Very rarely did the Warden leave a braid to hang between her shoulders, fearing that in battle it would be sawn off by a stray blade and a quick move of her head. A long braid was also a weapon to be used against her, something to be pulled on, tugged, and ripped.

A few moments later, the Warden had maneuvered her braid into a coil at the back of her head. There was no use in taking unnecessary risks.

After being helped into her breastplate and settling into her pauldrons, tasset, and gauntlets, the Warden felt suitably prepared for meeting the Empress. Unlike Loghain, she had not participated in the battle yesterday, and so her armor hadn't needed to be scrubbed. Loghain's, on the other hand, had required several hours' worth of tending. Loghain had meticulously wiped, scrubbed, and polished at his armor, trying to remove as much of Serge's blood and magic as he could. The blood had gone, but to Loghain's keen nose, the stench of the magic had lingered like rotten eggs and old milk.

Loghain pointed at the wall. "Don't forget your shield."

The Warden nodded her thanks and slung her shield over her shoulder. She then rebuckled her sword belt around her waist. "Do you think a cloak is superfluous?"

She was teasing, Loghain recognized. He let out a small chuckle and shook his head. It was already warm enough in Orlais in armor; there was no need to make it torturous with a cloak.

Feeling satisfied, the Warden ushered Loghain out of her room and locked it once more. She dropped the key into the small pouch at her sword belt, and putting a hand on Loghain's arm, gently led him out of the building and back into the sunlight once more.

It had been, she guessed, no more than a half hour's worth of preparation to see the Empress. She and Loghain had handfuls of minutes to spare, though that didn't stop them from the quick pace they made to the palace gate. Dane sulked on the way to the palace, clearly unhappy with their choice of destination, given everything that occurred, but he did not linger too far behind. Whenever the Warden's got too far ahead, he would bound towards them as fast as any of the Chevaliers' horses.

Tall and wide, the gate loomed like a cavernous maw in front of them. Its great heavy doors, nigh impregnable, stood open again at the Empress's command and so there was no need to step cautiously through the hole that the battering ram had made only a few yards to its side. There was no debris or rubble on the outside of the palace as there had been the day before, though there were streaks of dust on the cobblestones that indicated a poor sweeping job. It appeared that Celene had already called for cleaning efforts, and had no doubt kept her servants awake through the night ordering them to move, sweep, and stack whatever was out of place. They must have worked through the night, for many of the stray bricks that were still intact but merely out of place were stacked high by the ruined wall. Those bricks that had been crushed had been hauled out of sight. Instead of the destruction being an eyesore, all the chaos and rubble had been artistically arranged, pushed out of sight, or manipulated into neat little piles. It almost made the destruction of the previous day look like a _deliberate _effort.

They were greeted by one of the mounted and helmed Chevaliers, who flipped up his visor when the Warden claimed that she couldn't hear what he was saying. He had a heavily scarred face and sad dark eyes that were offset by the childish pout of his lips.

"My brother, Julien, will see you to the Empress," he said somberly in Orlesian. "Do not stray from the path, Wardens. Go straight to the doors," he turned in his saddle and pointed not to the ruined and twisted double doors that eventually led to the throne room. Instead, it was to a smaller set of doors that normally would have been hidden by one of the hedgerows.

It only then dawned on both Grey Wardens that there were no more hedgerows in the courtyard. The tall hedges that once could be found trailing around the winding paths of cobble stone and gravel were no nothing more than charred, smoking piles. The Empress had burnt all her hedge rows, leaving only the trees and grass intact.

"Ser," asked the Warden, placing an absent hand on his knee as she leaned around his horse to get a better look of the destruction, "was there some accident that occurred here? The Empress's beautiful gardens have been put to the torch."

The Chevalier stiffened at her touch and waved her hand away. "It was all deliberate, Warden," he replied.

"Does she plan to redecorate?"

"Ask that of the Empress," the Chevalier once more pointed to the doors and his brother Chevalier who was standing beside them. "Now go."

The Warden gave Loghain a curious look and then stepped around the horse and rider and into the courtyard. Loghain followed, but not without letting his pauldron jostle the mounted man and his steed. Dane went directly under the horse's belly, small tail wiggling.

Julien was waiting for them on the other side of the door, catching the Warden by surprise as she opened it. Pulling open the door and stepping in, she hadn't expected to bump face-first into the waiting knight. He also hadn't been expecting her, and both Grey Warden and Chevalier found themselves stepping back and drawing their swords and shields.

"Grey Warden?" asked Julien in a thickly accented King's Tongue. His sandy-brown eyes were nearly obscured by the heavy red bangs he sported.

"Yes," affirmed the Warden. "Warden Commander of Ferelden Aurora, her Second Loghain Mac Tir, and their Mabari Dane."

Squinting at her face, Julien gave a nod and sheathed his sword. It was not the Warden's words that reassured him, but rather the fact that she was wearing an eye patch and Loghain was wearing a scowl. Anyone could falsify a name, but it was hard to perfect the descriptions of these two individuals. The Empress had been _very _detailed, down to the four creases in Loghain's brow and the distinctive pearls in the Warden's eye patch. And you couldn't find a dog like that just _anywhere _in Orlais.

"I am to escort you to Her Majesty's pleasure suite."

The Warden's eye widened, and Loghain nearly choked on his tongue.

Julien did not seem to understand the connotation of his words, mistaking the reactions of the two Grey Wardens for reverence and awe rather than scandal. With a wave of his hand, he beckoned them down the well lit corridor. In this wing of the palace, Celene did not lack for light, as it came both naturally through the many large windows. This struck Loghain as rather prideful, since he was used to practical castles with small windows and arrow slits. What was the use of a perfectly good wall if it was going to be made structurally weaker and more vulnerable to attack by grand windows? Clearly, the Orlesians had never counted on an invasion force getting close enough to the palace for such design flaws to matter – the previous day notwithstanding, which to Loghain it did not.

If a proper Fereldan army came to Orlais, it could crush the palace like an eggshell underfoot.

Through a series of winding stairs and hallways Julien led them, up and up until they at last came to stand before a set of carved wooden doors. Like the ones to the Empress's personal quarters, these doors were carved with motifs of people engaging in a variety of activities. This door saw a woman playing panpipes while a group of men danced in a circle. Around them were groves of trees, and it took the Warden a few moments to notice that the figures in the carving had delicately pointed ears.

There were already Grey Wardens waiting at the doors, lined up against the wall like naughty or truant children that the Chantry Sisters had caught. They stood under the watchful gaze of Geoffroi, who was standing stiffly against a wall, nestled between two large windows. As he nodded to them and accepted the quick salute from Julien, the bells from the Chantry began to ring.

"Warden Commander," said Geoffroi, "the Empress expects you. Your sword and shield must stay with me."

The Warden pursed her lips and gave Geoffroi a hard stare, guessing that Loghain was doing something similar behind her. "This palace has not been good to me in terms of safety." The Grey Wardens in the hallway murmured appreciatively.

"Nor has it been good to the Empress," he countered and extended his hand. "On my honor, and may the Maker strike me down if I lie, but you will be safe in the company of the Empress."

After a few moments of consideration, the Warden reluctantly unbuckled her sword belt and swung her shield from over her shoulder. It could have been worse; he could have denied her Dane. If anything went amiss, Dane was a deadly weapon. She handed both to the Dirigeant.

"Thank you, Lady Cousland."

The Warden nodded her acknowledgement and gave a click of her tongue to Dane, ordering him to come along. Dane was at her heels as the Warden carefully pried open one of the carved doors.

Pleasure suite was perhaps the most _apt _description of the room the Warden saw, not because it had any sexual connotation, but because it was painfully obvious that this set of rooms contained all the things that brought Celene pleasure. No doubt there _was _a room for sexual liaisons amidst the nestled chambers, but that mattered little given what the Warden was observing.

This room in particular was painted in a delicate cream with pink accents. A pale, almost faded rose color was the dominant accent, and it was present on nearly all of the furniture coverings. Pillows and couches were colored in the soft shade, giving the room an almost imperceptible red glow. There were no curtains on the windows, and light slipped into the room unbidden like a maiden's hair. The doors that invariably led to other rooms in the suite were painted a brilliant white, and caught the light of the room in a most magnificent fashion.

Celene was in the center of the room, hunched over a massive round table on which there were piled hundreds of papers. On the floor at her feet were even more pieces of paper, each one delicately drawn upon or marked in some way. The Empress herself was marked, the tips of her fingers and the white lace of her gauzy shift being stained black by the ink she was using. There were even smudges of red, blue, and green on her nose and cheeks.

"Oh, Aurora!" she cried, throwing down her quill on the table and pushing herself away from her velvet-covered stool. She launched herself at the Warden, waltzing quickly across the floor on slippers stained blue. Her slender fingers wrapped themselves around the Warden's upper arms, and the Empress smiled. "I have been in fits all evening. All morning!" The Empress's golden hair hung wild down her back, barely held in place by the thick band of blue fabric she wore. She was like some great, golden lion trapped in an egg-shell colored cage, her eyes hungry as she observed her prey.

The Warden nodded, urging the Empress to continue.

"I have been thinking a great deal on the masquerade. On the costumes." She ushered the Warden to the table, not caring if either of them walked over precious sketches and ideas. "My mind has been filled with images: flowers, animals, themes. It is like my head is about to explode." She rubbed her fingers on her forehead, leaving black smudges behind.

The Warden surreptitiously examined her armor, only to find that it too had been stained by the ink. "You have been very busy, Your Majesty."

"I have been!" the Empress agreed. "I think I have a design in place for all, what was the count, fifty five of you in the compound?"

The number made the Warden frown. She was surprised at the number. Though it was large by Fereldan standards (for there were only seven Fereldan Grey Wardens at that time), it seemed pitifully small by Orlesian standards.

"I have spent all morning gathering all the dressmakers and tailors in the city. I have hired painters, poets, and craftsmen to build me a glorious stage on which we can dance, a canvas where I can paint my vision." She smiled dreamily and began to sort through her sketches, searching for something.

"Does this vision have to do with the burnt hedgerows outside, Your Majesty?" asked the Warden, realizing now what the Empress meant to do.

"Why yes," she smiled, "yes it does. Why, what did you think it was for?"

"I thought you might be replanting your hedgerows or removing them entirely, given what occurred, Your Majesty." There was no point in lying to the Empress.

Celene gave a small twitter of laughter. "Oh, Aurora, how droll you are. As if I would change the things I like based on fear."

The Warden raised an eyebrow at the statement but said nothing. The Empress probably _did _fear a repeat of what had happened yesterday, but it was neither the Warden's place nor prerogative to analyze Celene's motives.

"I have nothing to fear from little green plants. I have only to fear myself," she continued absently, rifling a bit more forcefully through the papers. "Of which I have much to fear. Aha! Here we are," her fingers plucked the edge of a piece of parchment and pulled it from a stack. She laid it on the table in front of the Warden, stretching her slender hides out. "Well, what do you think?"

The Warden examined the drawing placed in front of her. The sketch was of a woman in a long white gown, of which the bodice was dyed in a slow gradient of bright red. It was brightest at the bust, and faded into white when it reached the waistline. The skirt flared long and white, wide in the hips, to the ankle. There was apparently some sort of red petticoat involved in the outfit, for there was a band of red to the figure's feet.

"It is a beautiful drawing," replied the Warden honestly, admiring the simplicity of the Empress's design but also the elegance.

"It is your dress, Aurora," the Empress tucked herself into the Warden's side and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Can you guess the theme?"

Fereldan's Commander of the Grey did not even know where to begin. "I cannot."

"Do you want a hint?"

The Warden licked her lips nervously. "I am poor at guessing games, Your Majesty."

"Oh, don't be dull." Celene squeezed the Warden close. She rested her cheek on the younger woman's arm. "It is a flower. My gardener tells me it grows in Ferelden, so no doubt you have seen it."

There were few flowers, outside the common variety, that the Warden could remember the names of. The sketch did not resemble a rose, lily, or daisy, nor was it any sort of lavender, poppy, or iris. It looked nothing like her mother used to grow, but it was _familiar _in a way. She just did not know where to place it, and would be hard pressed to if she could not smell it.

Celene did not give the Warden much time to think or guess, for she gave the Warden another squeeze and said in a voice as soft as silk, "Andraste's Grace."

"Oh!" The Warden recognized the color pattern now that she had the name. It was Leliana's favorite flower. It did indeed grow in Ferelden. "You are too kind, Your Majesty."

"You have the face and countenance of the Maker's Bride," and as she said this, her hand moved up to gently stroke the nape of the Warden's neck, "I thought you should be garbed in her flower as well."

The Warden was unsure how to respond to such a statement. "Again, Your Majesty, you are too kind."

"Do you want to see what I have sketched for your Second?" Celene all but purred as she spoke. "It took me many hours to think of something fitting for you, but it took me only seconds to find the right motif for him!"

"I would be very interested to see what you've chosen for Loghain." The Warden expected the Empress to pick something cruel for Loghain, like a pig, or a donkey, but she was instead pleasantly surprised by the sketch the Empress showed her. A dark grey tunic and black leggings were the basis for the outfit, and alone were not enough for the Warden to figure out Loghain's theme. It was the sketch in the corner of the page, of Loghain's mask, that gave it away. "Is that a…mabari? Ha!" The Warden clucked her tongue at the thought of it.

"Very good!" Crooned the Empress. "Yes, I think he would be a perfectly wonderful little war dog. He is very loyal, utterly faithful. Like the mabari, he is a symbol of Ferelden. When we speak of Ferelden in Orlais, it is hard _not _to mention Loghain Mac Tir. Tell me," the Empress plucked the sketches of Loghain and the Warden away and set them a top the scattered pile of drawings, "do you think he will like it?"

"He will tolerate it," the Warden said, lips pulling back into a small smile, "so, yes."

"I tried to keep his design simple. Less ostentatious than the other Grey Wardens. I assumed he would appear more handsome in simpler clothes, but then who can tell?"

The Warden raised an eyebrow at the statement.

"Oh, you take offense. Silly one." Celene smirked. "It is hard to judge a man's attractiveness when he is hiding behind a mask, no? It is the same for a lady. Speaking of which!" The Empress returned again to scrabbling through her pile of sketches. "I have been drawing the mask I wish you to wear. I thought of the design myself and I think you will like it."

Even if the Warden didn't like it, she guessed she wouldn't have much of a say in the matter. The Empress was funding the creation of these costumes, and so if she wanted the Warden to wear a dress that was modeled after a chicken, the Warden would do so.

Celene held the sketch up so that the Warden could see it. Where most masks covered both eyes, the mask that Celene had designed only covered one eye: the bad one. The mask curved upward in the shape of a teardrop and had a variety of feathers accentuating its shape. The mask would effectively act as a glamorous eye patch, leaving the other top half of her face exposed. On the drawing of the Warden's face, there were tiny circles surrounding the eye not covered by the mask. The Warden inquired as to their nature, which prompted Celene to explain that her good eye would be lined with precious gemstones. "I thought rubies to match the red of your dress, but I think maybe, perhaps, diamonds would be equally as fitting. Yes, I think diamonds might be best."

"It is hardly a masquerade," protested the Warden, "if I am easily recognizable." She was not adverse to wearing the diamonds, but it did feel silly to only have half a mask.

"My pretty little Grey Warden," Celene's smirk had become even wider, "you are not an easy woman to forget. You would be recognized without the mask, just as you would with it. So think nothing of the disguise, and enjoy the pretty stones you get to wear!"

It unsettled the Warden that such a thing was true.

"Now, I have arranged for you to meet with my personal seamstress. I can trust no other to see my masterpiece come to life. You can have one of the Chevaliers escort you in a few moments. Laurette will be awaiting your arrival, and it would be best if you accommodated her fully. She won't touch you in that armor."

The way that the Empress spoke of her sketches as her "masterpieces" reminded the Warden of Herron and Wade. More so Wade than Herron, since Wade had been obsessed with perfection and its pursuit made real. It was a good thing that the Empress was only after obtaining the idea of perfection, rather than being charged with its creation.

A sudden hiss and a yelp of pain from Dane interrupted Celene's instructions to the Warden. As Celene had been showing the Warden her various drawings, Dane had crept from his mistress's side to explore the room. He'd found the same strange cat from the throne room. Fat and black, it had stared at him with golden, baleful eyes from atop one of the room's window seats. Dane had found Merle enjoying the sun, and Merle had found Dane annoying. When Dane had gathered the courage to sniff the cat closer, finding the scent of the other animal familiar, Merle had lashed out and scratched Dane across the nose. Dane has propelled back across the room, not stopping until he reached his mistress's legs.

"Oh, I think he just discovered Merle's new hiding spot. My poor little cat!" The Empress sighed, "She has been, much like me, distraught and overwrought about what has happened here. She has gone into hiding, and will only come out for food. I cannot even entice her with pearls and diamonds anymore."

At the mention of "diamonds," Merle shifted from the pastel pink cushions of the window seat. She slipped elegantly to the floor, stretching her long, silky body as she did so. She treaded on dainty paws towards the Empress; golden eyes alight in feline fire. When she had neared the Empress, she tensed her powerful legs and sprung forward through the air to land delicately atop the table where the Empress had been working.

The Warden was fascinated by the sinuous, sensual cat. She had never owned a cat, but had fed the strays around Highever. Truthfully, they were not really strays. They were mousers. They could keep what they killed; eat what they killed, but the Warden had supplemented their diets with cream and bits of shredded chicken or turkey. She liked cats. They were clever, independent beasts with pretty faces.

Stretching out a hand to touch the cat, the Warden nearly jumped in surprise when Merle hissed and launched an attack at her gauntlet. The cat's nails scratched harmlessly against the metal, their tips shrieking in protest at the contact. "Oh," said the Warden, "I don't think she likes me very much." Several more swats from the cat's paw caused the Warden to remove her hand.

Celene only chuckled and crooned in Orlesian at her cat. Merle shot the Warden a look of intelligent malice before sauntering over to the Empress and sitting on the pile of papers she was ruffling through. The cat raised a dainty paw to its mouth and stuck out its pink tongue. Tongue met paw and then paw met face as Merle cleaned her whiskers.

The Warden watched Celene stare at the cat with some amusement, the audacious Empress having met her match in the pretty feline. Celene stretched out one ink-stained finger to the cat, gently placing it between the cat's eyes. The cat made a sound of irritation and shook itself before scurrying off the table to hide again.

"She hates being dirty," explained the Empress. "And she is lucky I did not cover her in paint for the transgressions against my night's work!"

"It could be worse," ventured the Warden, "she could have stepped in the ink and walked her little paws all over your drawings. At least she was clean."

"Thank the Maker for small mercies," replied the Empress in an unconvinced tone. "Now, Lady Grey, it is time for you to see my seamstress. You will take with you my drawing," and at this she handed the Warden the Andraste's Grace sketch, "and you will make sure no harm comes of it. You will also tell no one what it is, since I want this to be a grand surprise for everyone."

The Warden nodded. "Your Majesty."

"And send in Loghain Mac Tir before you leave." The Empress threw the Warden a smirk over a gauzy clad shoulder as she turned back to her sketches.

Giving the Empress a stiff bow, the Warden returned to the carved doors and slipped back into the hallway. She held the Empress's drawing to her chest.

Dane trotted to Loghain and bumped his legs with his head. Loghain scratched the top of Dane's head in greeting as he stared curiously at his commander. "You came out looking none the worse for wear."

Geoffroi gave a cough of displeasure at Loghain's insinuation. He sent the Warden's Second a wary look as he held out both the Warden's shield and sword belt.

The Warden took both with a grateful nod of her head and settled them back on her person. She flashed Loghain a smile. "She wants to see you next, and you will have a simply splendid time."

Loghain grumbled at the thought. "Maker help me, I hope it is quick."

"Keep Dane with you," instructed the Warden, "if not for security, then at least for support!"

Dane gave a quiet _woof _in agreement at the idea. His stumpy tail wriggled in pleasure. If he got to stay with Loghain, he would be able to find the familiar cat again.

"And where are you off to?" asked Loghain as the Warden turned to move away.

"To see a seamstress," the Warden was positively glowing at the prospect, "Shall I meet you back in the compound later?" She asked in a quieter voice, mindful of the other Grey Wardens waiting in the corridor with their arms crossed and their eyes downcast.

Loghain nodded, but whispered her a parting warning. "If I don't see you by mid-afternoon, I'm coming to find you."

The Warden bobbed her head in understanding. "Consider it mutual." She turned on her heel, giving Loghain one last look of farewell before she made her back way down to the courtyard to find Julien. No doubt he could escort her to the seamstress.

8-8-8

The fitting did not take as long as the Warden anticipated. Celene's seamstress was an efficient, no-nonsense martinet who had the Warden out of her armor faster than an eager lover out of their clothes. Laurette Boutin had been in the service of Empress Celene since the Swan had been born. Her mother had made gowns for the Empress's mother, and she in turn would make gowns for the Empress, and her daughter would make gowns for the Empress's children, and so on and so forth. It was what the Boutins did.

The seamstress's workshop was quite airy and filled with mirrors, and as Laurette puttered about the pale blue room with its lacy white curtains, she chattered about her good fortune at being moved into the palace where the air wasn't quite so foul as it was at Celene's family's estate. "Better for my daughters," she said, coughing into a square of fabric she had pulled from a yellow sleeve.

Laurette needed little prompting to talk to the Warden on just about anything. As the Warden stood in her smalls, waiting patiently for Laurette to pin and pinch fabric to her breast band to make a makeshift smock, Laurette chattered about her life and knowledge. Laurette's adeptness with the fastening and unfastening of armor came from her husband, who worked at the palace as blacksmith. He had been personally assigned to make the Empress a suit of armor, and it was through a joint effort of Laurette's knowledge of the female figure and Pierre's knowledge of metal that they had constructed an elaborate and exquisite set of decorative, yet highly practical armor for their sovereign. Celene hadn't worn it once, Laurette explained, but she at least had the option to.

The Warden had some trouble following the woman's quick Orlesian, nodding when she didn't understand or thought it appropriate. She appreciated Laurette's lack of comments about her physique. Her muscles were quite prominent, and her skin was mired with scars, and she had been expecting the seamstress to berate her for ruining her good looks. But Laurette had done no such thing, not even when she saw the Warden's scarred back. She had merely shrugged and gone about her work.

An hour later, and with nary a pinprick or scratch, the Warden exited Laurette's workshop and made her way out to the burnt courtyard and to the streets of Orlais. Stepping out of the gate and nodding at the helmed Chevalier, she let the busy and rancid air of the foreign city blow across her cheeks. She was beginning to feel homesick for Ferelden. She missed Denerim and Amaranthine, but most of all she missed Highever, even though there was nothing left for her there. She licked her lips, squared her shoulders, and shifted her shield higher over her shoulder before she set down the street.

She was about one gate away from the Grey Warden compound when she encountered commotion on the street. There was a fight, and it had knocked over the stands of several fruit vendors who were wailing loudly at the combatants and threatening to join in the fray themselves. The city guard had not yet arrived, which suggested that the brawl had just begun. The Warden pushed her way through the heckling crowd, her shield on her arm, to get a better look.

A man and a woman were locked in hand to hand combat on the cobblestones. The woman, her red hair bound tightly into a braid and held out of her eyes by a brown leather kerchief, had the man pinned to the ground, one knee pressing into his throat. The man's hands were clawing at the leather of her leggings and tugging at the pleats of her leather skirt. The Warden saw too late the woman had distributed too much of her weight on the man's upper body, and saw the pinned man give a great heave with his legs and stomach, flipping them over one another and sending the woman flat onto the ground.

Shaggy brown hair obscured the man's face, but the Warden recognized instantly. The buzzing of a brother, pushed out of her mind by practice, came swarming back into her consciousness. "Vidar," she breathed.

Vidar seemed to recognize her as well, for his eyes widened and he moved to dart away.

But the woman was faster, catching the man's ankle so that he stumbled and flailed.

The Warden capitalized on the opportunity, and brought her shield forward to meet the side of Vidar's head, and he crumpled to the ground unconscious. "Slippery bastard," murmured the Warden. She felt the woman use her sword belt as a hand hold as she heaved herself up, and the Warden caught her as she staggered. She stiffened in alarm as she was suddenly embraced by the red head, only softening when she heard a familiar voice.

"You are all right! You are all right!"

The Warden pulled back to look into the pretty face of Leliana. "Leliana!" She beamed and embraced her friend, wrapping the smaller woman into a tight hug.

"Oh, Maker, Aurora!" Leliana's hands went to either side of the Warden's face. "Your face! What happened to it? You poor dear!"

The Warden pulled her face from her friend's grasp. "I'll tell you later."

"Hey!" called the shop keeps and grocers, "pay for this mess you've caused us!"

"Direct all your complaints to Andraste Caron," called back Leliana, pulling herself away from the Warden as she addressed the mob. "She will see you compensated in full." Leliana was sporting a black bruise beneath one of her eyes, but was grinning with the full fury of happiness as she turned back to the Warden. "Thank the Maker you are safe."

"And you," said the Warden, touching the bruise with a finger. "We should probably leave this place, and what were you doing chasing Vidar?"

"I was asked to," explained Leliana, kneeling down beside Vidar. She removed what appeared to be silver floss from a pouch at her hip, and began to bind Vidar's hands behind his back. "By Commander Caron."

The Warden's eyebrows rose. "She knew he had me?"

"He had you?" Leliana frowned. "I don't understand."

"He found me when I was injured and was sedating me." The Warden leaned forward as she watched Leliana work; mindful of the way the grocers and shopkeepers were moving around them. "I woke up when he was gone, and I used the opportunity of his absence to escape."

"When was this?"

"Yesterday."

"You were with him _yesterday?_" Leliana's eyes widened and she gave a frustrated sigh. "That is when I was asked to hunt him down. I wish I had known."

"Think of it this way," the Warden said with a smile and a consoling hand on Leliana's shoulder, "if you hadn't been ordered to find him, I never would have been given the opportunity to escape."

"You always know just what to say to make me feel better," Leliana flashed the Warden a smile as she finished binding Vidar's hands. "Do you think these merchants would mind if I borrowed one of their little carts?"

The Warden glanced around at the disgruntled looking merchants and shook her head. "I think they would. But I have another solution." The Warden slipped her shield off her arm and offered it to Leliana, who took it in understanding. Leliana also slung Vidar's bow over her shoulder as well. The Warden knelt and gathered the unconscious Grey Warden to her, slinging him bodily over her shoulder. It took the Warden a few minutes to position Vidar comfortably. He was heavier than he looked.

"You are so strong!" Leliana marveled, placing a teasing hand on the Warden's armored bicep.

The Warden only gave a laugh that was strained from the exertion of carrying Vidar's weight and began the slow trek to the compound, which was visible down the street. "How long," the Warden asked, "had you been chasing him for?"

"All night." Leliana gave a satisfied smile. "It was quite fun. It has been a long time since I've been involved in a rooftop chase. Val Royeaux is a beautiful city even from the rooftops!"

The Warden disagreed, not finding Val Royeaux to be beautiful in the slightest. "How did you find him?"

"I used a trick that Marjolaine taught me. It works surprisingly well on the paranoid and suspicious." Leliana poked Vidar's side gently with the edge of his bow. "This one is very paranoid and _very _suspicious."

Sweat was beading on the Warden's brow. "You know, Leliana, you never did teach me any of those tricks you were going to."

"Bard tricks?"

The Warden nodded.

"I thought you were just saying those things to humor me," Leliana's nose crinkled as she recollected moments around the campfire where the Warden had solicited her for advice. The questions and requests had been so genuinely earnest that Leliana had thought them duplicitous, though she wouldn't dare tell the Warden such a thing. "But if this is what you really wish, I will share some of my secrets with you. Just do not tell anyone!"

"Who would I tell?"

"All your friends!"

The breathless chuckle that came from the Warden was partly from exertion, and partly from a sad sort of pain in her breast. "If you say so, Leliana." In a rather glum moment, the Warden realized that she didn't have as many true friends as she originally thought. The Warden had many allies, but not many _friends, _and therein rested the difference. Friends would do anything unconditionally. Allies often required some sort of recompense for their benevolence. _Favors. _

There was a flurry of commotion as they entered the Grey Warden compound. Alaric had been passing between buildings and caught side of them, and had rushed to the Warden's side, red hair fluttering in the breeze.

"That's Vidar!" he said in some surprise. "He's hurt! He's bleeding from his forehead! What happened?" He spoke quickly, concern evident on his face as he poked and prodded at his friend. "Oh, Maker, we aren't under attack again, are we? Is this from yesterday? Did you just find him?"

"I'm to bring him to Andraste," explained Leliana, shooing Alaric away and chuckling when Alaric's doting hands and persistent questioning returned. "You poor dear! Do not fret over him, he will be quite all right, I think. He is only a little injured."

"Head injuries can be quite deadly," Alaric maneuvered around the Warden and ducked down to get a good look at Vidar's forehead.

Something in the Warden's gut tightened and she lurched forward in anticipation of what was to come next. She called out to Leliana, to warn her of what was happening, "Leliana, don't let him - "

But it was too late, Alaric's hands had begun to glow blue and he let his magic wash over Vidar's face. The magic slipped from his fingertips and over the archer's skin, the blue mist crawling into Vidar's mouth and nose. Vidar's eyes fluttered open, hard and cold on Alaric's face. His body tensed as his mind caught up with him, and then he gave a great kick of his legs, flailing his body to upset the Warden's balance so that he could make his escape.

At the first sign of movement, the Warden dropped one knee to the ground for balance, her arms coming up to keep Vidar from struggling too much. "Get Andraste, Leliana," she ordered, bracing herself against Vidar's squirming.

Leliana nodded and made haste towards the stone building in the center of the courtyard. Vidar's bow clanked awkwardly against the Warden's shield as she ran.

"I could _walk _there," said Vidar, testing the bonds that held his hands together. "If you put me down."

"Your legs will run as fast your tongue," replied the Warden sourly, her captivity weighing on her mind. She sent an unhappy stare to the healer, who was walking this way and that around her. "Alaric," she scolded, "did you really have to wake him?"

"I didn't know," the mage said defensively, "I thought he was in trouble. You didn't say he was wanted."

The Warden shook her head and gave a chuckle of disbelief. "Why did you not ask? Did you not see his hands tied behind his back?"

Vidar, ever the opportunist, used the movement of the Warden's head to pinpoint the position of her hair relative to her braid. He had felt one of her ridiculous loops brush against his side as she'd moved, and now she would get what was coming to her. He slid his arms across his back towards her, and dug what fingers he could into the mass of golden hair, pulling it sharply.

Shrieking, the Warden tipped forward, throwing Vidar to the ground. The shock of landing on his back so quickly stunned him for a few moments, his fingers going slack in the Warden's hair. He had managed to pull one of her braids out of position, snapping several of the pins that had held it in place. The Warden dropped heavily onto the middle of his stomach, resting her armored weight on the softest part of his torso. With his hands bound and pinned behind his back and the leverage of his legs removed, all Vidar had left to disarm the Warden with were his words.

"You're even uglier from below."

"Be quiet."

"And fat. Maker, you're squashing me."

Alaric was kneeling beside the Warden, checking her scalp for damage. "He didn't rip anything out," he said after a few moments of poking and prodding.

"Good," the Warden stared the archer directly in the eye, "I'd hate for him to lose his fingers."

"With one eye, you wouldn't be able to do the task," he rasped back, wincing as he tried to shift away from the Warden's weight. She was sinking into him like a stone in a pond.

"Causing trouble are you, Vidar?" called Andraste across the courtyard. In her wake were Serge, Loghain, Dane, and Leliana. All four made great haste to where the Warden had Vidar pinned. "Always causing trouble," the Warden heard Andraste mutter as they got closer.

"Have _orders,_" replied Vidar, dramatically exhaling his breath.

Andraste motioned with her hand for the Warden to rise, which she did, but not before flipping Vidar onto his stomach. With Alaric on one side and the Warden on the other, they grabbed Vidar's arms and hauled him to his feet.

"You had orders to desert the compound on the eve of battle?" Andraste shook her head. "That does not sound like something that would come from Weisshaupt."

"Maybe you should check my boot," Vidar suggested with a smirk.

Andraste raised an eyebrow and the Warden vehemently shook her head. "Serge," she pointed to Vidar's leg, "if you would."

Serge nodded and stretched out a hand, curling his fingers in an awkward and arcane way.

The Warden saw Loghain's face drain of color and take on a mask of displeasure as Serge siphoned off his life energy to do as Andraste commanded.

Vidar's body went rigid as the magic coursed through him. His limbs as stiff as a corpse, he could do nothing to harm Andraste as she crouched down to search through first the left boot, and then the right. The right boot revealed a leather toggle on the back that opened up as a discreet document pouch. In it, there was a neatly folded, but well handled letter. Having what she needed, Andraste took a step back and motioned for Serge to free Vidar, which he did so with a lowering of his hand.

Andraste spent a few moments reading the message, her eyebrow raising in what everyone present thought was surprise. "You can let him go," she said to the Warden and Vidar. "And free him from his bonds. He is a Grey Warden and no prisoner amongst his family."

The Warden shot Andraste a dark look and tilted her head to Vidar, indicating that Leliana should retrieve whatever she'd used to bind Vidar's hands.

When Vidar was free, he shook himself like a great dog, as if he could rid himself of the touches of captivity. "Not what you were expecting," he said to Andraste, tone a mixture of blatant disrespect and comfortable familiarity.

The Warden Commander of Val Royeaux merely shrugged. "We could have saved lives if you had been there, my little Grey Princeling."

Vidar sneered at the title Andraste used. He turned from the group, shouldering roughly past the Warden and Alaric as he sought a place to be alone. He snatched his bow from Leliana, who was offering it to him with a gracious smile. Alaric moved after Vidar, keeping a respectful distance between them as he stalked the ranger out of the compound and through the streets of Orlais.

"The dog and the puppy," said Serge sadly, shaking his head.

"How was the meeting with the Empress?" asked Andraste, folding her hands in front of her as she surveyed the Warden with her quick, green eyes. "I take it you did not run afoul of Antivan Crows or unstable Grey Wardens while you were in her care?"

"No, I was only in the hands of the paint-stained Empress and her very meticulous seamstress." The Warden gestured to the black smudges on her armor from the Empress's fingers. "She is quite an artist." Her eye darted to Loghain, who seemed to find the idea of the Empress's artistic skills morally wrong. "She is designing our costumes for the masquerade ball personally." The Warden could feel Leliana humming with excitement beside her at the idea.

This information was the first bit of news that genuine caught Andraste by surprise. "She is quite gracious."

"Did you get a good look at the designs?" Serge leaned forward conspiratorially, "I am told I look very good in red."

"Alas," the Warden shook her head, "I did not. I only saw mine and Loghain's, and I was sworn to secrecy." She held up her hands, "I would like to keep both of them. Orlais has taken enough from me as it is."

Serge chuckled and tipped his head in understanding.

"Now, if no one needs me," said the Warden, putting a friendly arm around Leliana's shoulders, "I would like to catch up with my dear friend here."

Andraste looked to Serge, who in turn looked at Loghain, and they gave a collective shrug. "You are free to go."

With a grateful smile and a wink to Loghain, the Warden led Leliana back to her room. As they walked Leliana remarked that she had never actually been inside the Grey Warden compound before. She had walked past it, but had never entered.

"It is just like the rest of the city! I would never have guessed," she twittered, holding onto the Warden's arm as they walked. She still had the Warden's shield slung over her shoulder, and together, they made a whole warrior. "What sort of things do they sell in the shops?"

"Anything you can think of," the Warden caught the glimmer of something dark and lustful in Leliana's eye and laughed, "no, Leliana, not _shoes._ At least, not the shoes you're after. Big, ugly, bulky shoes. _Fereldan _shoes."

"Oh." The bard wrinkled her nose. "And probably itchy wool tunics too."

"Most likely."

There was no sign of Coralie or Mara in the common room of the apartment, nor in the hallway upstairs. The Warden guessed that Coralie and Leliana might have gotten along quite well. Slipping her key from her belt pouch and turning it in the door lock, the Warden ushered Leliana into her room, taking her shield from her in the process.

"It is bigger on the inside, isn't it?" Leliana picked her way around the room, gloved fingers trailing over the vanity. She pulled out the small stool from beneath the vanity's alcove and perched daintily on it. She unstrapped her bow from her back and rested it on the vanity's top before turning to the Warden. "You owe me a story, Aurora."

The Warden raised an eyebrow, taking her own seat on the edge of her bed after laying her shield against her pillows. The mattress creaked and groaned at the weight of a fully armored Grey Warden. "Do I?"

"Your…" Leliana struggled to speak, and then touched her eye.

"You know," the Warden let out a small sigh of frustration, "Zevran did the same thing. Why is there so much hesitancy to acknowledge that I'm missing an eye?"

A wrinkle appeared between Leliana's eyebrows. "It is just a shock. Eyes are the Maker's gift to bards. I cannot imagine what it must be like…"

"You don't notice after awhile," lied the Warden, guessing that if Irving hadn't given her an enchanted glass eye she would have been driven mad by the loss, "I am only reminded of it when others remind me of it."

"Oh." Leliana wrung her hands in front of her, twisting them on her lap. "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to remind you."

"It is all right," the Warden smiled consolingly at Leliana, "I know you only worry for me."

Leliana perched on the edge of the stool, leaning her weight forward as she rested her elbows on her knees. "Will you tell me how it happened?"

"It is not one of my finest moments," said the Warden after a few moments of thoughts, "I don't actually remember much of it. I was in the woods hunting down a crazed templar. I had him cornered and defeated, but he had some sort of acid with him. I let my guard down and he splashed it into my face. The mages were able to heal most of the damage, but I arrived in their care too late for them to save the eye." There were gross omissions in the story, which the Warden acknowledged fully. Whatever was happening in the Circle Tower did not need to be exacerbated by the tale of the Hero of Ferelden losing an eye, and there was no telling who Leliana might share this story with.

Leliana's face was one of disgust. "That sounds simply dreadful."

"It was. I am told I was in a great deal of pain."

"I am thankful at least that it was only your eye that was irreparable."

"As am I." The Warden gave her a rueful smile, "I do not think I could stand to wear a mask the rest of my life. My vanity would never allow it."

Leliana chuckled at that and gave the Warden a kind smile. "You would still be beautiful, Aurora. Besides, there are ways to make scars look very handsome."

The Warden put a hand to her cheek, "Handsome is not exactly the image that I try to present to the world each morning."

"And why not?" Leliana moved from the stool to sit by the Warden on the bedside, "they said that Andraste, the Maker's Bride, was handsome of face and slender of feet."

"She must have been very talented," replied the Warden, "for I do not think I could be a barbarian warlord and be comely at the same time."

"Silly," Leliana giggled, "you're Fereldan. That makes you a barbarian everywhere else."

The Warden playfully shoved Leliana. "So cruel to me."

"It is true. Everyone knows that Fereldans live in swamps and sleep with their dogs."

"Such a stereotype!"

Leliana shrieked in laughter as the Warden's gauntlets found their way into her hair, ruffling it mercilessly. "No! Don't give me your fleas!" Her hands batted at the Warden's, managing to lace her fingers with that of her friend and former leader's. She gave the hands a squeeze. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Leliana. Life is not quite the same without you. Nor is camping. Loghain is a terrible cook."

"I am not surprised," replied Leliana with a wicked expression, "he looks as though he takes his food very bland."

"Makes it that way too. I would rather live off dried rations. Or cook myself."

"And why don't you?"

"I do! But," the Warden sighed, "to keep both our skills sharp, we trade hunting and cooking duties."

"Well," Leliana patted the Warden's hands consolingly, "we cannot all have the palate of a mabari."

"No," agreed the Warden, "we can't."

"So," Leliana sidled closer on the bed next to the Warden, so close that she was almost nestled in the Warden's laptop. "You met with the Empress?"

The Warden nodded.

"I have never met the Empress, though I have seen her, and I have heard much about her." Leliana's blue eyes were sparkling like two stars reflected in a deep pool. "What is she like?"

"Indescribable," replied the Warden honestly. She dropped her gaze to her armored knees, "she is beautiful, but it isn't a feature of her face. I do not quite know how to describe it. And she is powerful, Leliana. She is utterly powerful, a force of nature, mesmerizing and exotic. She looks at you," she flicked her eye to Leliana's, "and she sees _you. _She sees _through _you. I do not understand how she does it."

Leliana pondered the Warden's words. "Maybe it is magic? Blood magic, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," the Warden frowned and shook her head, "but I don't think so. I have experienced blood magic, and I do not get the same sensations from her. I think it is just her. She knows how to manipulate people."

"And you think," asked Leliana with some concern, "that she is manipulating you?"

"Of course she is. But I am powerless to stop it. I am but a speck of dust, a pawn to be moved on whatever board she chooses."

"Do you know what she wants?"

"What does a woman who has everything want?"

Leliana's face drew back into a thoughtful expression. "Does she have everything? You really think that a woman such as she has a rich and full life?"

"She does not appear to be lacking in anything that I can think of." The Warden rubbed a finger against her eyebrow in thought.

"Maybe she wants a friend?"

"Maybe. But I would hardly be the best choice for such a thing."

Leliana grinned. "Oh? Did I mention you at all?"

The Warden's eyes narrowed. "Do you want more fleas?"

"I haven't gotten rid of the ones I picked up from Ferelden yet." She theatrically scratched at her head. Sunlight streamed through the window and made Leliana's hair glow ruby and amber in the room.

The Warden rested back on her hands and considered her pretty friend. "Do you plan to go back to Ferelden, Leliana?"

"I do not know," the bard admitted. Her lips puckered into a tiny rose bud as she considered the Warden's words. "I had thought about staying in Orlais, but I am not so sure anymore. There is not much here anymore for me. I have come home, but I am a different person, and so home does not feel like home anymore for me. If that makes sense."

Something thick and dull began to stab painfully at the knots that had twisted in the Warden's stomach. "It makes perfect sense to me, Leliana. If I was to ever return to Highever…" she winced, "it would not be home."

Leliana placed a hand on the Warden's cheeks and caressed it fondly. "We can call ourselves orphans, yes?"

"If you listen to Andraste, I apparently have a large, extended Grey Warden family to call my own." The Warden sighed. "It does not yet feel that way."

"And I have…myself!"

"You have me." The Warden placed her hand over Leliana's. "You will always be family to me." There was a plan forming in the Warden's mind. A seed of thought had taken root, and was now blooming into the prettiest of trees. It was a family tree, with roots strong and deep that were buried in the earth along with Dane and the Werewolves, Calenhad and Shayna, and the Maker's Bride herself. It had long, sinuous branches from which dangled Couslands of all ages and names. The longest of these branches had two names at its end: Aurora and Fergus. All the branches had leaves, save this one. "You stayed in Denerim after I left, yes?"

Leliana nodded. "I did. I did some shopping, visited some old friends, and spent time with the Chantry, tending to the wounded."

The Warden knotted her brow. "Did you see Fergus at all?"

"Your brother?" Leliana's nose wrinkled in thought. "Hmmm, yes. A few times."

"How did he look?"

"He looked sad. Like you do now, actually." Leliana frowned when she saw the long draw of the Warden's face and the thin line of her mouth. "Haunted."

"My poor brother." The Warden closed her eye and slowly shook her head. "I fear he will never recover."

"I overheard that he came from the Chasind Wilds, having been nursed back to health by the barbarians."

"He did. He was lost at Ostagar. I was looking for him. I was so relieved to find him, just not to bring him the news." Thoughts of finding Oren and Oriana raced through her mind, the massacre at Castle Cousland as painful those many months later as it was then. "We lost everything when Highever was taken, Leliana, but Fergus lost more than I did. He not only lost mother and father, he lost his home. He lost a woman he loved and had crossed the Waking Sea for, and their young son."

"Oh, Maker," Leliana put a hand to her mouth, "your poor brother. No wonder he looked so lost. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain he must feel. How terrible!"

The Warden nodded. She straightened, drawing away from Leliana. "And what is worse, he will outlive me. The curse of the Grey Wardens, Leliana, is that we do not live to see our old age. For the power we receive from the blood of our enemies, we must return to them when the time comes. For good or for ill, I am the last surviving reminder of safety and comfort to my brother, and it will only be a matter of time before even that is taken from him. I fear he will never recover."

"You speak as though you will die tomorrow," said Leliana with some alarm.

"I could," replied the Warden gravely, "I could fall of a cliff, be cut down by bandits, drink poison… any number of things could snuff my candle." She put her face in her hands. "I honestly do not know what to do." The lie was simple and subtle.

Leliana ran her hand down the back of the Warden's breastplate. "You cannot live in fear of your fate."

"You know me better than to think that I fear for myself."

"I suppose that's true." Leliana placed her cheek against the Warden's pauldron. "I know it must be very hard for you to talk about this."

"Thinking of what Rendon Howe did to my family will never be easy to talk about. He might as well have slit my throat and my brother's, for all the good being alive has done us." The Warden shrugged her friend away and stood, moving to the window. "This Blight has done terrible things to families in Ferelden. It has wiped them out outright, or has slowly eaten away at their foundations until there is nothing more than irreparable rubble. It has been a horrible year."

"No, you are being dramatic," protested Leliana, moving quickly to follow the Warden.

"I wish I could say I was. Howe wanted to eradicate my family. He did so. I am a Grey Warden," her hand clenched on the windowsill, "and I will likely never bear children in my lifetime. The taint has made conception near impossible." She stared into the courtyard. "And Fergus, my brave and independent brother, may perhaps never come to know another woman's touch because he fears the past and its echoes. Highever will remain cold and dark. The laughter of children ringing through the halls will never be heard again."

"Stop it, Aurora," pleaded Leliana, tugging on the Warden's arm, "you know that dwelling on such things will make it come to pass. You told me this yourself."

"Do as I say," remarked the Warden dryly, "not as I do."

"I do not like to see you sad."

"I don't like showing you that I'm sad. I am adrift at sea. I have no idea what to do. I need to be there for my brother, but it is not possible for me to be. He needs friends, Leliana, people he can trust… and having grown up with many of the people in his social circle, he is walking blindly in a pit of vipers." She released a long, slow sigh. "I don't suppose I could ask you to watch him for me?"

"Me?" Leliana raised an eyebrow. "Watch your brother?"

The Warden nodded and turned to face Leliana. Her face was alight with passionate fire as she spoke. "Yes. Keep an eye on Fergus. My frustration and anxiety stems from the fact that I can't care for him as I should. The support he needs he can't receive from me. He will be surrounded in a home that constantly reminds him of the past, or surrounded by friends are that really his enemies. It is a terrible place to be in when you are all alone."

"I suppose I could watch him. I am not doing anything else," Leliana licked her lips, "But…why ask this of me? Would not someone in his…how did you say it…social circle be more appropriate? Surely you can find someone who is decent in Denerim?"

"You have been my closest friend, Leliana. Through thick and thin, up and down, you have stood by me. I trust you with my life, and I trust you now with the most precious thing I have left: my family." She clasped Leliana's arms and gave them a gentle squeeze. "You are one of the best things that the Maker ever sent to me. You are like my sister. You have always been good to me, and have made me a better person. If there was one thing I could pray to Him for, it would be to send the same sort of person to Fergus."

"I," Leliana looked speechless, "I don't know what to say. Those are the kindest words anyone has ever said to me…"

"I don't say it out of flattery," the Warden's smile was tender, "I say it out of truth. You do not have to watch my brother if you don't want to. You are free to take your own path, but if you should find that you are looking for a cause or find yourself wandering, the doors to Highever would always be open to you. As will the gates of Amaranthine."

"I…" Leliana chuckled, "well…I suppose I could return to Ferelden. Your brother did not seem to be an evil man."

"He isn't," assured the Warden. "Fergus is a lot like me. We are different, I grant you, he is more headstrong than I, but we are also very much the same."

"Are you both ticklish?" Leliana teased, laughing when she saw the Warden pale. "Well?"

"Under his feet," replied the Warden in a whisper, leaning close to Leliana could hear, "but you did not hear this from me."

"A little like Aurora and ticklish under his feet. I think I am off to a good start, yes?"

"Here," the Warden moved to her vanity and pulled open the central drawer. She revealed a plain piece of parchment and a quill and inkwell. "I am going to write a letter to Fergus, and have you deliver it to him."

"And you think your brother will just let me stay at your Highever estate?"

The Warden frowned over a pauldron at Leliana. "Why wouldn't he? You are my friend, you helped save Ferelden, and you are on my orders to help him redecorate."

"Redecorate?" Leliana's eyes widened. "You said nothing about that."

"You've often teased me about Orlesian superiority in design and taste. It is time to put those words to the test, Leliana! Spend all of our money and make Highever a warm, luxurious place again." The Warden smirked, "You have my permission to do so."

Leliana's eyes were sparkling. "Oh, I like the sound of this. I like it very much."

"As do I," said the Warden, affixing her signature to the bottom of the letter she had penned. Between her signature and the body of the letter, she placed a series of diagonal lines so that no text could be added. Beside her signature, she drew the paw print of a mabari and wrote "Dane" below it. In the absence of a Grey Warden seal, this would be the way that Fergus would identify that the letter truly came from her, since she had often signed her letters to him in a similar manner. She folded the parchment neatly, tied a spare hair ribbon from one of her drawers about it, and then passed it to Leliana. "Keep it safe."

Leliana slipped the letter into her belt pouch. "I will."

There was no guarantee that Fergus and Leliana would become friends, there was no guarantee that they would become lovers, but at the very least, Leliana could put Fergus on the path to healing, which was enough for the Warden. She embraced her friend tightly and murmured a gentle thank you to the crown of her hair, before pulling back and smiling impishly. "So," the Warden waggled her eyebrows, "would you like to come to the masquerade ball?"

Leliana's squeal of delight stopped Loghain in his tracks outside the Warden's room. He gave Dane a sidelong look, which Dane returned. Neither of them wanted to know what was happening behind that door.

* * *

_"But where is the Glorious Reunion? It was promised to us two chapters ago!" I know, and I am sorry. This is apparently a massive three part chapter. The NEXT chapter will be the ball and all that fun stuff. It does make sense, in a way, to at least separate the chapters by companion assignment. Hopefully I haven't lost anyone with the long, tedious plotting chapters... some of you may not like reading them, but I always enjoy writing them! _

_Many thanks go to Lady Winde, my steadfast beta. I didn't mean to keep you up all night reading this thing! You're an awesome friend, and I love you to pieces. _

_And thanks go out to the readers! Special credit must be given to Arsinoe for her suggestion of Andraste's Grace as the Warden's costume. Credit must also be given to the lovely Shakespira, Gene Dark, and Josie. Conversations with the four of you ladies are not only humorous, but they're also incredibly insightful and help me a great deal. _


	42. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32 **

The day of the ball was rapidly approaching. It hung like an axe over Loghain's neck and like a fine diamond necklace around the Warden's. With Leliana to fuel her excitement, the Warden was a tizzy of nervous energy. Loghain had not spent much time with her; nor at that moment did he particularly _want _to. Charming though she was, her girlish excitement at playing dress up in the Orlesian palace was not to Loghain's taste. He was happy to have his commander back, he was happy to have _the Warden _back, but he was not happy about staying in Orlais to dance to the Empress's tune. It was a waste of their time as far as he was concerned, and when he'd said as much, the Warden had merely laughed, clapped his shoulder, and told him to grin and bear it. _She _had to.

But of course, _she _seemed to love the idea of the party.

It was curious.

Loghain never recalled any sort of formal court gathering he had attended that he'd ever seen the young Aurora Cousland look _happy _to attend. Sometimes she was positively droll looking in her misery, staring at the other women around her with boredom or disdain (and they looked at her with much the same; if it was one thing that likely made the Warden's life difficult, and Loghain knew this quite well from his own experience, it was her pedigree. By virtue of her blood and station, she could have her pick of the litter of any of the men at the Landsmeet.). The only things he remembered that had brought her pleasure were swapping jokes with Cailan, stealing occasional sips of wine from her mother's chalice, and twirling her hair and making eyes at Vaughan Kendells. As Loghain had watched her (and he had been watching her out of respect for Anora and Ferelden's safety for a very long time) he had never come to regard her as a great lover of large festivities.

Loghain couldn't guess why that would change now, but it had. She was insufferable to be around, and so Loghain kept his distance.

This left the Warden to her own devices, which consisted of either walking around Orlais with Leliana and Dane, or sitting with both of them in her room, chattering nonstop about the ball, designs, fitting, and Leliana's past experiences with the Orlesian court. Leliana had gone to these sorts of parties before, not masquerade balls, but grand and lavish balls. She had dressed up, painted her face, and arranged her hair in masterful fashions.

Which brought Leliana to suggest "And you will let me do your hair!" the day before the ball.

"You aren't afraid of fleas?" teased the Warden, but her eye was flashing with merriment. She and Leliana were nestled together like wrens on her bed, their arms draped across the other's body and their noses touching as they whispered about the ball to one another.

Leliana's fingers twisted strands of the Warden's long hair, left unbidden for the day, between her fingertips. "Well, I will douse my hands in wine before I let them touch my hair again!"

The Warden's nose wrinkled. "That sounds sticky."

"It is better than itchy!" Leliana's rosebud of a mouth was a vibrant dot of red in the shady nook of the bed, the sun having dipped low in the afternoon sky to cast the room into shadow. "You have probably never had little bugs of the hair. I wore a wig once. It was very unpleasant. I thought I would never be rid of the little beasts. I swore never to wear one again."

"I would not want to wear a wig. I don't much like the idea of being itchy."

Leliana made a little humming noise in thought. "How do you keep them off Dane? He used to sleep next to you all the time at camp. You were never itchy then."

"Dane is too filthy to be a good home for them," replied the Warden with a wide smile. "Could you imagine _living _on him? Blech!"

Dane heard this from his position on the small cough in the corner of the room, and gave a grunt of displeasure at being talked down to. _Maybe _if a certain _Mistress _bathed _less _she would get into less trouble. After all, Dane would not be there forever to watch out for her, warding her against people who would do her harm.

"Ooooh," Leliana made a little purr of disgust. "That would not be pleasant and I do not blame them at all."

The two women fell into a peal of friendly laughter at their responses to the prospect of living on Dane. They chattered on for a few more minutes like sisters, before Leliana brought up the topic of the Warden's hair again.

"How would you like it done?" she gave a small tug on the Warden's hair for emphasis.

"My hair?"

"Mhm!"

"Up," replied the Warden vaguely. "Oh," she smiled sheepishly at her amendment, "And not in braids. I am tired of braids. All I wear is braids."

"So you are thinking maybe of a bun?"

The Warden made a face at the suggestion. "That seems so…plain."

Leliana's lips pursed in thought. "Hmmm. Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way? I'm offering suggestions without seeing what I have to work with."

"I don't have much," the Warden admitted, "only what the Empress gave me."

"You have pins and jewels, yes?"

"I do."

"Where?"

"In my vanity dresser."

Leliana had bounded from the bed almost in the span of an eye blink, so excited was she at the prospect of playing with another woman's hair. She was crouching over the vanity, opening the drawers and pulling out shiny gems from the Empress or dulled pins of the Warden. The Warden chuckled at the way her friend oohed and awed over the things she found, propping herself on her elbows to get a better look at the items Leliana was fussing over.

It was when Leliana got to the small, white bundle of fabric that Loghain had given her all those months ago that a cold blossom of fear bloomed to life. She did not quite know why she felt so anxious about Loghain's gift, and assumed it was due to the circumstances under which Loghain had presented it to her. She had nearly forgotten about the thing too.

"What is this?" asked Leliana as she began to first lift one end of the handkerchief, and then another…

The Warden's mouth was dry, and she coughed to clear her throat. "T'was, hmm, a gift."

"What was it?" Leliana paused in her unwrapping, giving the Warden an excited look over her shoulder. The pale blue tunic she wore made the bard's eyes look like diamonds.

"I," the Warden managed a sheepish smile, "I don't know. I never opened it."

"You had a _present _and you didn't _open _it?" Leliana gave her a look of disbelief.

"I was a little bit busy at the time. I meant to." The Warden shrugged. "I just did not."

"Well, you should be the one to open it then!" Leliana trotted back to the bed and sat on its edge, watching the Warden struggle to sit up and face her. As soon as the Warden's hands were no longer supporting her weight, Leliana had thrust the delicate bundle into them. "I want to see!"

"See you shall," replied the Warden quietly. The bundle did not feel like hot coals as she imagined it would, and with deliberate pinching of the handkerchief's edges and subsequent pulling, she revealed Loghain's golden prize.

"Hair combs," breathed Leliana. "They are so beautiful."

The Warden had to agree. They were beautiful hair combs. The very same ones she had eyed in the market place during their first day in Orlais. Loghain had gone back to get them. Loghain, who absolutely hated Orlais, abhorred the idea of speaking to Orlesians, and held Orlesian crafted objects in more contempt than he did for anything else save Orlesians themselves, had bought them for her. She had never expected such a thing from him, having never fully realized just how observant and aware he was until then. She'd never really appreciated it either. She was _very _flattered.

Leliana's giggle tinkled along with the chantry bells in the distance. "You're blushing! You've gone all pink! Is it from the person who gave you the gift?"

The Warden cleared her throat again. "Err…yes. Yes, I think so."

"Who was it?" Leliana had her hands resting on the Warden's thighs, her nails scraping the fabric of the Warden's pants in excitement. "Don't tell me you have an Orlesian lover and you never told me!"

"Nothing so, hmm," the Warden was having some trouble admitting what she was feeling, "nothing quite so romantic." She picked up one of the golden hair combs, letting it catch the faint light. They were just as she remembered them.

"I'm _waiting, _Aurora!"

"They were from Loghain."

There was a small, yet highly pregnant pause in the room, before Leliana burst into a fit of raucous laughter. She was sobbing with mirth, falling sideways on the bed as her sides heaved. "Oh, Maker," she panted, "Oh, Maker, preserve me."

The Warden stared at Leliana with a long of consternation, brow wrinkling at her friend's reaction. "And what is so funny about it?"

Leliana didn't answer the question. She instead rolled onto her back and threw her arms over her eyes. "I am going to write a song about this, Aurora. A love song of the Hero of River Dane and the Hero of Ferelden!" When the Warden slapped her thigh in reproach, it only set the bard into a greater fit of giggles. "_He met his match in her brocade, O that General, General of River Dane!"_

"Quiet!" hissed the Warden, eye wide as she glanced to the door to the hallway. "It is not quite as funny as you think."

This sobered Leliana, and when she sat up, her face was a mask of concern. Leliana had once been on the receiving end of a much older man's attentions, and she mistook the Warden's reproachful responses as ones of desperation. "Is it…unwanted?" Her voice pitched low as she spoke, a melody of sympathy but also threatening intent. "His attention?"

"No! No, no," the Warden shook her head quickly. "It is not like that at all. It is just…complicated."

"I imagine that Loghain Mac Tir is quite a complex man." There was no condescension in Leliana's tone, just an eager recognition of something that she had noticed from their travels together. "He must have many secrets."

The Warden nodded. "I suspect he does."

"You don't know them?"

"They are his to share with me when he wishes." The Warden let out a loud sigh. Her eyes traced the delicate outline of the comb before she placed it back on the kerchief. "We were not on good terms for a long while, Leliana. The combs were his apology to me." Sour thoughts of their first night in Orlais and the subsequent war of words and silence that had trailed after them flickered across the Warden's mind like wing beats.

"I would never have guessed he had such good taste."

The glimmer of a smirk played on the Warden's face. "Well, I _did _pick them out. He just bought them."

"Ahah! That would explain it." With a raise of her eyebrows and a mischievous chewing of her lip, Leliana leaned forward to ask the inevitable, "is he courting you?"

"That is assuming that we desire some sort of attachment other than our friendship."

"And do you?"

"I do not know. As I said, Loghain and I are only recently on friendly terms."

"Did you know," Leliana said in her coy voice, "he was always watching you in camp?"

"I might say he did the same to you, Leliana," replied the Warden. She gave an indifferent shrug of her shoulders and laid the delicate package on her lap. "He watched every single one of us. I would not consider that to be anything more than just his habits."

"I may not be explaining this properly." Leliana grasped the Warden's shoulder and gently brought the Warden around to face her. "Do you know the look that Dane gets when he sees something he wants?"

The Warden knew that face _very _well. "You mean the one with the large eyes and the slightly parted mouth?"

Leliana nodded.

"Then yes, I know that look."

"That is how he looked at you."

The Warden pursed her lips in thought. Truth be told, that is how _many _people had looked at her (and this was not the Warden's grossly inflated ego speaking). It unsettled her now, as it unsettled her then, about her comrades' infatuation. Though it had mostly amounted to harmless flirting and a stolen, drunken kiss or two under the cover of night, those romantic overtures had been as steady a companion as Dane. Before the Landsmeet, before slaying the Archdemon, the Warden had been very good about ignoring romantic overtures and their signs. Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana to a certain extent, had all worn the expression that Leliana had described at some point or another. She had eventually succumbed to Alistair, bitter though she was about being a Grey Warden, because of his easy nature. Alistair had provided the good humor and mirth that she had used as a balm for her wounds. Thus, it did not surprise her that by the time Loghain had joined their party she had become somewhat desensitized to that _look. _"I will take your word for it," she said carefully, "but I do not think his feelings began that long ago."

"You are quite reluctant to admit his attraction, no?" Leliana gave her a friend a kind smile. "You do not find him handsome?"

"Of course he's handsome. He is also a good man. There are many admirable qualities that make him attractive. We just," the Warden took a deep breath, "need to come to terms with this on our own. It is too soon. It may not even be appropriate, given our prior connections and current affiliation. It may just even be wishful thinking." For the sake of both her reputation and Loghain's, it would be better if news of their "relationship" did not reach the gossips in Denerim. Leliana could be discreet, but there were other women in Ferelden who were not, and there were those amongst the nobilities that would likely try and use any sort of carnal familiarity against them. Moreover, she did not think it was appropriate to discuss the intimate details of her relationship with Loghain, because Loghain himself would not feel comfortable with it.

"You will at least let me sing at the wedding?"

The Warden scowled at Leliana, pursed her lips, and then with one long finger, began to assault the other woman's side with a flurry of little pokes. Leliana squealed and flailed away from the tickling, thumping the headboard against the bed.

Loghain, who was passing through the corridor at just that time, raised an eyebrow at the noise. He did not falter in his steps this time, having become accustomed to the strange sounds and commotions he often heard when passing by it. Whatever it was those girls were up to, he didn't want to know.

8-8-8

And it was, at last, the day of the party. The dawn came slowly and in an almost unwilling fashion. She hid her pretty face behind a veil of mist that had crept upon Val Royeaux as the city had slept. The Grey Wardens who were on watch were restlessly patrolling the walls of the compound. Though they could not see far into the mist below them, they could hear the sounds of hooves and the shuffling of feet over the cobblestones. From the palace they saw the blinking and winking of lights, and it was not long until the lights were passing through the arch below their feet. One of them moved to ring the warning bell, to wake the rest of the Grey Wardens, but found the noise of the bell was drowned out with the braying of trumpets, the whickering of horses, and the loud laughter of the Chevaliers.

It was the day of the party and it was heralded with the arrival of the Empress and her vanguard.

Chevaliers trotted around the courtyard, the sound of their horses' hooves echoing along the cobblestones in the grey and misty morning. Trumpets sang as the courtiers roused sleeping Grey Wardens. But the true spectacle came from behind the grand procession. Flanked on all sides by an honor guard of knights in the Empress's colors came a large wagon that was stacked high with boxes of various shapes, colors, sizes. The Empress herself led the way, her large sedan being carried by her most loyal knights and servants.

"Come out, my sleeping hunters!" called the Empress into the empty courtyard, her voice mingling with the braying notes of the trumpets. "Come out and see what camouflage I have brought you for the hunt tonight!" Her green eyes scanned the windows and doorways of the surrounding buildings, searching for faces peering through windows or doors cracked open ajar. She thought she saw a few glimpses of pink and brown faces through windows in the fog, but just as soon as she saw them, they disappeared again. She called out again, crooning at the Grey Wardens to come receive their due.

Andraste was the first Grey Warden to appear. She came sprinting through the mist in a flurry of red hair and brown leathers. The mist snaked around her ankles as she moved, wispy fingers clutching at her thick boots. In her wake came Serge, whose voluminous robes disturbed and parted the mist as he stepped quickly behind her. With their cheeks bright red and their eyes dim with sleep, they stood before the Empress to await her words. They suffered the curious stare she levied at them, watching from behind their eyelashes as she tilted her head left, then right, as she regarded them. Perched amongst her pillows, with her dress spilling over their edges and her bodice stiff and tight, she looked to the First and Second of Orlais like some white breasted bird in her nest.

Seeing their leaders presented in the courtyard, the remaining Grey Wardens began to filter out into the courtyard. Some were dressed in their armor, others were half dressed, and some had merely tucked their sleeping gowns into their trousers to be presentable. Those Grey Wardens who manned the walls kept their posts, but turned their ears towards the conversation that was occurring behind them.

"Bring them all out!" commanded Celene to Andraste with an imperious wave of a slim, white arm. "I have gifts for everyone." With her hair coiled and studded with gems to resemble a crown, and her dress the same color blue as the morning sky peaking through the heavy clouds overhead, she was an unearthly sight in the mist. It hung heavy and damp on her face, the moisture speckling her cheeks and eyelashes like stars.

Andraste nodded and turned away from the Empress. She raised her hand into the air and waved her hand in a circle. At the movement, all the buildings in the Grey Warden compound came to life. Cautious Grey Wardens, who had hidden in the dark nooks of their homes like foxes during a hunt for fear of the Empress having changed her earlier decision to pardon them, now spilled into the courtyard. Loghain, the Warden, and Dane were to be amongst the last to show themselves, Loghain having _insisted _that they be in their armor, and that he would not allow the Warden out of her room, let alone the apartment, if she wasn't in her plate.

The Warden could only nod her mute consent, sleepy fingers and eyes trying their best to secure Loghain into his breastplate while he tried to do the same for her. "We should just sleep in our armor," she said, trying to stifle her yawn with her words.

"Damned uncomfortable," replied Loghain in a weary voice. "And damn your laces."

"The armor has to stay fitted _some _way."

Loghain only grunted, tugging the strings tightly before tying them into a knot and slipping them underneath the protective leather flap that covered them.

Names were being called out in the courtyard, the Warden's name amongst them, and she gave a loud sigh. "We are late. We are late." She cursed when her name was curled again.

"_No Aurora Cousland? Do not tell me she has already left, Commander Caron!" _

Neither Loghain nor the Warden could hear Andraste's response to the Empress's question, though they did hear what the Empress said next:

"_And is Loghain Mac Tir out here?" _A pause. _"No?" _

The Warden buried her fingers in her hair, frantically parting it and weaving it into a haphazard braid. Loghain was watching her with a dark expression on his face.

"Are you rushing to appease her? Or are you rushing due to embarrassment?" he asked sourly, lips pursed so tightly they were white.

"Do not think to trap me with such narrow questions," chided the Warden with a stiff tilt of her head, turning her good eye to face him. "One of the first things you told me on the boat to Val Royeaux was to not draw attention to myself. And yet, here we are, drawing attention to ourselves."

"_Aurora, my little sleeping Warden, come out!" _

"You see," hissed the Warden, "she has noticed. She is after me!"

Loghain crossed his arms over his chest. "Let her wait. She is trying to make you nervous, and she will continue to do it, so long as she thinks she has power over you."

"She _does _have power over us. At least for the moment." The Warden's fingers rubbed against each other, trying to drown out the Empress with the hiss of skin on skin. The Empress _expected _her, and while there was some resentment at being called at like a pet, the Warden had grown too used to doing what was expected of her. Showing up in time for dinner was _expected. _ Follow the laws of Ferelden was _expected. _ Suffering the Joining had been _expected. _ Slaying the Archdemon had been _expected. _ This trip had been _expected. _ Always was she ordered, never did she order, and there was that mentality, that frame of mind, that _demanded _that she do what the Empress expected of her.

"Fix your hair."

"_I don't think she wants her gift!" _

"I beg your pardon?" She stammered on the pardon, and cursed herself for the blatant uncertainty she was showing.

"Fix your hair," Loghain repeated. "It's a mess." To him, the Warden appeared as one hunted. Stalwart and proud though she was in her armor and the defiant slant of her mouth, he could still hear the desire to submit to another whim's in her tone. It sounded like the scrape of a knife on bread when there was too little butter to coat it, a sad and hoarse thing. He settled her pauldrons and tasset into place as she worked, not expecting to find himself on the other edge of that sharp knife.

"I understand," said the Warden, "what you are trying to do." She was unraveling her curls and restyling them, her fingers long, tense, and furiously working as she spoke. "To protect me. And I truly appreciate it. However," she tugged roughly at her hair, molding it and shaping it into a twisting, serpentine mass, "I do not think it should come at the expense of our reputation and relative anonymity. Such things can be more deadly than an arrow or a sword. Our delay makes us look arrogant. Or lazy. We already stand out amongst the other Grey Wardens, which gives them enough cause for them to judge us. Should they feel slighted by the Empress, they may choose to use this moment against us."

Loghain said nothing, the only sign of him having heard her reprimand was the deepening of the lines in his brow. While he disagreed with everything she said, the curt confidence of her command had returned. She was bristling under his direction, though did not seem to be offended by his impulses to occasionally take charge. Yet, the unspoken warning did not go unnoticed by Loghain. He had over stepped his bounds this time.

Pulling away from Loghain to gather her shield and sword, it was not long until she looked the part of a respectable Warden Commander. With Dane trotting happily at her heels and Loghain following behind her at a respectable distance, she made her way out into the courtyard. She had decided in the few steps it took to get to the door that she would try and have a modest entrance. She would not swing open the door and waltz through, acting as if such tardiness had been intentional. Nor would she slip outside like a mouse or a child scolded, shutting the door behind her with the quietest of intent. When she entered the courtyard, the groaning of the opening door was only earnest and unashamed. Her footsteps on the cobblestones were quiet and unassuming, but she made no move to hide them. Loghain made no such efforts either.

The Empress paid it all no notice. She was engrossed in her gift giving. She sat atop her pillows, atop her sedan, atop her loyal bodyguards, passing out gifts from the brightly covered wagons behind her. Into her hands the large, lumpy, cloth wrapped bundles went, and then out of them as she passed them to awestruck Grey Wardens. "Dresses and tunics, so richly made!" she sang, "be mindful not to crush them, for they are fragile!"

The mist pressed down upon Loghain, Dane, and the Warden as they stood out of place amidst the growing sea of Grey Wardens clutching their presents. Andraste and Serge were amongst this group, and both sent their Fereldan counterparts looks of pity. There were not many Grey Wardens left who were not counted in this number. The speed at which each called Grey Warden moved was astounding; they darted up to receive their present, thanked the Empress, and then removed themselves as quickly as they could from her presence.

"Not exactly a brave bunch, are they?" whispered Loghain into the Warden's ear.

"She executed over half of us. Have some humility," she replied.

All the presents were now gone; save two.

"Oh, and look! Two presents left over." The Empress was smirking. "Loghain Mac Tir, are you now present?"

Loghain stiffened in response to the friendly tone at which the Empress of Orlais addressed him. "I am." He felt the Warden elbow him and grit his teeth. "Your…" the words were rotten in his mouth, "…Majesty."

"Good! I so missed your handsome and smiling face earlier. And you see," she leaned to her left to speak to Geoffroi, "this is quite funny, because Loghain Mac Tir does not smile!"

Chevaliers, courtiers, and guards laughed at the queue. Geoffroi only let out a small chuckle. "Your Majesty."

"Come here, do not be afraid, I do not bite," she said in a low voice, crooking her finger at him. "I have a gift to give you."

Loghain willed his limbs to move but could not find it in himself to obey. He only got started when he felt the Warden pushing gently against his shield. He moved mechanically towards her. Thoughts played across his mind of what he could do to this woman, this silly, vulnerable woman. If he got close enough, he could remove her head from his neck with only a broad stroke of a quickly unsheathed sword. There was no possibility that her guards would be able to retaliate so fast. He could stab at her; he imagined he might be able to get in three or four of them, before he was cut down. She could die and he could make it happen, and Anora, Maric, and all of Ferelden would be avenged.

"You do not want it?"

Loghain realized he had been staring at the Empress's neck, and not at the bundle she had lowered down to him. He shot Geoffroi a look of mistrust, and sent equally dark looks to the two guards holding the sedan up, before reaching his arms up to take the package.

"Very good." The Empress gave him a wide and bright smile, her gums as pink as the paint on her cheeks, "You will be pleased."

The reason that Loghain did not turn his back on the Empress was not out of respect, but out of his deep seated fear that the guards and knights around her would stab him on the back. Aurora was side stepping around him as soon as he had returned to her, going up to meet the Empress for her own present.

"You hurt my feelings, Aurora!" the Empress said loudly. She ran a gloved hand over her cheek, puckering her lips in a theatrical show if sadness. "I thought you might not come!"

The Warden kept her gaze fixed on a single point, concentrating on a small knot in the wood of the sedan chair. She said nothing, thinking it better to let the Empress have her say. There had to be an obvious ploy in the woman's words, some concession she wanted from the Warden, or some situation she was trying to put her into.

"I was afraid you might not attend my grand party tonight!" She gave a grand sigh and flopped back onto her pillows. "I think it may be because I have been so cruel to you! I have shown you a terrible image of Orlais that I _must _change."

The Warden nearly jumped out of her skin when the Empress's hands cupped her cheeks, the Swan of Orlais leaning down to grasp her and revealing the expanse of her milky white bosom to everyone who was standing in front of her. Her hand splayed along the Warden's cheek bones, forming a prison of pale blue against the Warden's fair skin.

"Come to the palace for supper! I will see you are well taken care of!"

The Warden could hear her father in her head lecturing her of Orlesian military tactics. _"Divide and conquer, pup._" The Empress was trying to differentiate her away from the Grey Wardens, isolating her from the people who could and _should _be her allies, forcing her into a position where the only ally she would have in Orlais would be the Empress herself.

But then, what had the Grey Wardens ever done to make her feel like part of their family? She had always been an outsider – and not by choice. They had shunned her, exiled her for things that were out of her control, kept secrets from her, and then expected her - _expected her _– to give selflessly of herself in return. She found it hard to believe that _these _were the people that Alistair had spoken so highly of, that _these _were the people that Riordan had called friends.

"Your Majesty is too kind," she said quietly.

"Come," whispered the Empress against her forehead, "come to my home. Let me feed you, wash you, clothe you, and make your spirit whole again."

"I promised a friend," replied the Warden in a whisper only the Empress could hear, "that I would let her attend to me, and that I would in return tend to her."

The Empress pulled back to look into the Warden's face. There was a sort of sisterly understanding in the other woman's features. "You can bring her too."

The Warden could almost hear Leliana screaming in delight. "Your Majesty is gracious." The Warden sketched the Empress the lowest bow she could manage in her armor, and when she straightened, the Empress had the Warden's package in her lap.

"This I will keep," she said, running her hand along the smooth fabric, "until tonight. I have my dinner at the fifth afternoon bell. Be early, or I shall gobble it all up and leave none for you!"

Nodding in response, the Warden sketched another bow and stepped away from the Empress.

"We have completed our mission, gentlemen!" The Swan of Orlais clapped her hands. "It is time to return home and prepare!"

As the Empress and her entourage departed, murmuring Grey Wardens returned to their cozy homes and lonely rooms with their arms full of frippery and finery.

The Warden found Loghain staring balefully at the bundle in his arms. "Does it burn you?"

"I should burn it," he responded in a bitter voice.

Placing a gentle hand on Loghain's arm and ignoring his look of displeasure, the Warden steered him back to their apartment. Whenever Loghain's steps faltered, Dane was there to nudge him forward with his head. When they were safely in Loghain's room, the Warden took the package from his numb hands and laid it on the bed. Her fingers were toying with the black ribbon holding the bundle closed and were near to opening it when Loghain's voice broke the silence: "Do not."

"I'm sorry; my curiosity got the better of me." She flashed him a kind smile. "The honor is yours."

"I plan to take it back."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "To Ferelden?"

Loghain's eyes narrowed at her obvious attempt at being obtuse. "To the tailor who made it."

"And why would you do that?"

"So he can sell it to someone who _will _wear it."

"Does that mean," the Warden turned to face Loghain, her eye narrowing, "that you will not be coming tonight?"

"No." He met her stare for stare. "And if you were smart, you would do the same."

"You are being ridiculous." Grey clashed with blue and she put her hands on her hips.

Dane used their fight as a distraction to crawl onto the bed and investigate the bundle that was the cause of such distress.

"_I _am the one being ridiculous? _You _are the one attending the party."

"For the _Grey Wardens,_" the Warden heaved a great sigh. "It is not a gala in honor of the Empress's knights, nor is it a party celebrating the defilement of our homeland. It is celebrating the Grey Wardens' victory - "

"- in keeping Orlais safe. Yes," Loghain sneered, "_such _a victory. This is just for the Empress's personal vanity."

"And so what if it is?' countered the Warden. "She is at least pandering to _us _and not the other way around. She wishes to show good faith, regardless of what her personal motives may be."

"And what motives might those be?" Loghain pointed a finger at her, "having a Fereldan pet?"

The color drained from the Warden's face. "What did you just say?"

"Did you, or did you not, admit to me earlier that she had power over you?"

"You are deliberately misquoting me out of context to power your hatred of the Orlesians." The Warden took a dangerous step towards him. "Do not think to call me a traitor, Loghain Mac Tir. _Do not dare._"

"What else am I to think when you act so submissive to that…to that _woman!_ To cater and bend your knee, to scrape and _bow. _Can't you see it, Aurora? She treats you like some bloody pet!"

Dane looked between his two Grey Wardens in pity. As they argued, their voices got louder and louder, until soon their quarrel was filling the entire room. Loghain was yelling. His mistress was yelling. Arms were gesturing, fingers were being pointed, and feet were being stomped as they tried to outdo each other in volume and vehemence. Indignation and hurt rolled off each of them in waves so palpable that Dane was pinned to the bed with the weight of them.

They covered politics. They covered history. They covered Anora's failed marriage to Cailan. They covered Bryce's trips to Orlais. They covered the Landsmeet two times over, and then they covered the issue of command. Neither one could make ground as the other countered, out maneuvered, and then restructured previous arguments to suit their needs. Loghain appealed to patriotism and reason. The Warden appealed to the future and reason. There was no room in their arguments for anything else than their absolute truth.

But when it turned to emotion, neither of the Wardens had an appropriate counter argument.

"Why does it matter so bloody much to you, Loghain?" The Warden slapped her gauntlet to her breastplate. "Am I not allowed to have friends? I should feel safe in this new family of mine, but instead I am surrounded by enemies, people who hide things from me, people who would see me give everything for nothing in return?"

"The Empress," Loghain said slowly, "is _not _your friend. She doesn't want to be! She wants to use you as a ploy to gain a foothold in Ferelden."

"You think I don't know that? Do you think me foolish enough to have not already realized such a thing? Or do you not trust me to make such decisions?"

"Look what happened the _last _time you made such a decision. You nearly died." Loghain stalked to the window, his shoulders and back stiff.

"And that was not the Empress's fault! That was the fault of the Grey Wardens. That was Serge and Andraste keeping secrets. It was Marcus with some grudge against the First in Weisshaupt." She lowered her hand from her chest. "You cannot blame the Empress for anything except putting her trust in Marcus and the Grey Wardens."

"She should have been able to see Marcus for what he was," Loghain replied, "one cannot claim to be as intelligent and savvy as the Empress without having a good sense of who to trust."

The Warden crossed to him and pulled him away from the window. "How can you say that?" She took his upper arms in her hands and gave him a firm shake, "she loved him! Love does," and with this the Warden softened and lost her ferocious air, baiting Loghain by opening old and festering wounds, "strange things to us. We cannot help who we fall in love with. Surely, you know this from experience?"

Katriel. Fiona. Rowan. The Warden. Loghain understood all too well what it was to fall in love, or to see someone fall in love, with the most unlikely a person. Maric had suffered the worst of it because his choice in women had not been unlike the Empress's choice in men: duplicitous double crossers. Loghain had just blundered through all his romances.

"I know you do," the Warden continued in a soft voice, seeing the frost in Loghain's ice begin to melt with memories. "I understand why you think as you do. I know why you are as cautious as you are. Yet," she touched his cheek gently, "I need you to have faith in me, and my understanding of the situation. You and I do not always make the best decisions, we make mistakes, but we cannot let these mistakes rule us. We cannot fear them. I will not fear the Empress, no more than you should."

Loghain looked insulted. "I do not _fear _the Empress of Orlais." He did not like the sudden wide smile that spread across the Warden's pretty features.

"And why then do you hunch and hide when she looks at you?"

"I do not."

The Warden's smile only widened as her bait was gobbled up. "Perhaps I am thinking of a different Hero of River Dane, then. No matter. I will brave tonight alone." She raised an eyebrow at Loghain waiting for him to respond.

Loghain's eyes roamed across the Warden's face. It was young, as it always was, and bright with earnest feeling. Her one grey eye was a reminder of the last time he'd let her go alone into an unsafe environment. It was true: the Grey Wardens had tried to kill her. They did not trust her, and they lied to her. They were not her friends, they were not her family, and they likely never would be in his limited lifetime. He knew that the Empress would probably kill or capture the Warden too, if she thought it might give her some political advantage.

As much as Loghain hated to admit it, if she was going to the party and he wanted to see her be safe and whole in the morning, he would have to go as well. If he couldn't save her from herself, perhaps he could save her from someone else. And if he died in the process, perhaps she'd think twice about being so damned foolish.

"I do not like Orlais or anyone in it," he said after some length, "and I will never do so, but I _do _trust you. As much as I can," and he said this with a wry smile, "trust any girl more than half my age with matters regarding Fereldan's safety."

"So you are coming tonight then?"

He nodded.

The Warden beamed and threw her arms around his neck. "Will you," she tossed her head back dramatically, tilting her head back so that she was looking down at him from the curve of her nose, "be my _escort_?"

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that is proper?" Sensations were being stirred in his gut that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"Has that ever mattered before?"

Loghain shrugged, and simply enjoyed this comfortable familiarity. The embrace of her arms around him and her warm breath on the side of his cheek was…not disagreeable.

"I am sure Serge is taking Andraste," the Warden mused, "I see no harm in you taking me. You are the only man I can trust in Orlais."

"If I was not to take you," Loghain said, "I would not take anyone."

Loghain's rich voice snuck through the gaps in her armor and hummed against the Warden's skin. Her toes curled in her boots, and she was convinced that he had emphasized the 'take' to mean more than he intended. "And would you like to _take_ me?" Her good eye was half-lidded, and her lips were quirked into the beginnings of a smirk.

"Of course I would," replied Loghain, mouth going dry at the look she gave him. He was not exactly sure where the conversation was going or what the Warden wanted, but he knew exactly where in his body his blood was rushing to. "Any man would be foolish to say 'no."

"I am glad we're in agreement." She was now wearing a shameless smirk. "I am going to find Leliana and tell her the news. Will you and Dane be all right on your own?"

Loghain eyed the package and mabari on the bed. "I imagine that a tunic and pants will not be too difficult to get into."

"Well, they _are _Orlesian made," teased the Warden, "you know how tricky those Orlesians are."

"If you cannot find me, just assume the tunic was poisoned or the pants were too small."

"And had too many laces?" She winked. "I know how much you hate those."

Loghain made a small sound in the back of his throat. "Only when they're on you." He watched in satisfaction as her cheeks turned pink.

"I will now concede gracious defeat," the Warden murmured, smirk having been subdued into a quieter sort of smile, "and leave."

The Hero of River Dane merely nodded his head and watched the Warden depart. When she was no more than an echo down the hallway, he turned to Dane and the package. "I hope the Empress provided you with some sort of miserable form of torture to wear tonight," he grumbled. "And if she didn't, I'll tie a bow on you myself."

Dane whimpered and fled from the bed, cowering beneath it at the thought of Loghain tying a bow around his teeny, tiny, stumpy tail.

8-8-8

The Warden and Leliana had dined on swan for dinner. Neither of them had eaten the bird before, and they were enjoying the well-spiced, thick gravy of the pie until the Empress began to explain the context of their meal. "Swans mate for life," the Empress had explained as she daintily plucked at the pie crust with her fingers, "and when you kill one, it is said that the mate mourns. These pies are made from two swans, since it would have been inhumane to kill one mate and leave the other alive." She had given a high, trilling laugh then before digging into her dinner with great relish. Both the Warden and Leliana had lost their appetite at the brutality of it.

When dinner had ended, the Empress had ushered both the women into her private chambers, and it was there that they chattered and gossiped as servants arranged their baths and dresses. Each woman's needs were taken care of, right down to the scent of the oil used in their bathwater. They were washed and scrubbed by matronly, efficient servants who scoured skin of dirt and grime until it glistened when rubbed down and patted dry. When they were finished, the three women were wrapped tightly in thick robes while perfumed lotions and paints were arranged.

"Do you not employ elves?" whispered the Warden to the Empress, having noticed that not a single one of the women tending to them was anything _but _human. She clutched her robe tightly around her body to suppress her shivers. She was cold from having just exited the warm bathwater.

"In my personal retinue?" The Empress shook her head. "No."

"Why?"

"Why not?" She chuckled. "'Tis my choice. I keep those women around me to whom I can relate." The Empress gave a small shrug. "The elves have their own culture that, while fascinating, is quite insular. When my women tend to me, I know that we share many of the same values and experiences. I can guess the paths of their lives, and I can judge their characters. An elf I cannot judge as easily, because they keep their feelings and thoughts well guarded, and share them only with those in their family circle. I would never expect entrance into such a thing, nor should they expect it of me. They are good people, Aurora, but they are not _my _people. I am surrounded by strangers day in and day out and when I retreat here the women I want around me are those who are familiar."

Leliana quirked a curious eyebrow at the Empress's words and opened her mouth to say something, but stopped at the subtle shake of the Warden's head.

They sat together in silence as Celene's ladies rubbed lotion into their feet, then their legs, all the way up their bodies into their hairline. There was no room for modesty, though the Warden did close her eye when Leliana's and the Empress's robes were pulled from their slender shoulders. The effort was futile on her part, because Irving's enchanted orb still provided her with an accurate view of their silhouettes.

"Your Majesty, do you do this every day?" asked Leliana, grinning from ear to ear at the pampering.

"Yes," Celene gave a low laugh, "Every morning."

"This would be the second time today!"

"It would indeed, my pretty songbird."

"Did you choose the same fragrance? It smells so good!"

The banter continued even into the dressing, with Leliana asking questions of the Empress's routine and the Empress providing her with amused answers. The Warden ignored most of it, too engrossed in the process of slipping into the beautiful gown that had been designed just for her. The scratch of linen and silk against her skin, as well as the familiar sensation of being trapped by corset lacings, reminded her of her mother. From the earliest possible age, Eleanor had brought the Warden from Denerim to Amaranthine to Gwaren on her social calls, and it had been common routine for her to lace her daughter into and out of her dresses. Eleanor had arranged her hair, arranged her clothes, arranged her into a proper young lady, while the Warden had complained and chafed under her mother's fussing.

And now those times were gone, and they were never coming back. There would be no more salons with Eleanor, no more shared laughter at ridiculous gossip, no more time to be young and loved unconditionally by a mother. Those precious moments had been squandered, crushed under the heel of sullen youth.

Leliana's intake of breath drew the Warden from her melancholy, and she raised a grey eye to the mirror in front of her to see what had gotten the bard's attention. Leliana looked lovely in a gown of purple and white, meant to mimic the petals of an orchid, but she was completely outshone by the unearthly vision of the Empress. Her gown was triple the size of both Leliana and the Warden's, composed of thick skirts, shiny, gossamer layers, and the most delicate of white feathers.

"I think you can see what I am, yes?" she asked with a smile, staring straight at the Warden's face in the mirror.

8-8-8

It was clear that the Empress was a swan. With her hair in an elaborate coil atop her head and her mask set in place, there was no doubt to anyone in the courtyard waiting for her to arrive what she was. Like her standard and her nickname, she glided down the steps from her throne room into the courtyard as a swan glides atop the surface of a lake. She swept her arms out wide, revealing a sumptuous lining of creamy silk that gave her the illusion of wings. Her neck and bodice were speckled with diamonds, and she glittered with every delicate step in the moonlight. Perhaps most striking was the black, over-sized mask she wore that angled upwards over her head to end in a plume of black and white feathers.

Trailing behind her were Leliana and the Warden, both advised to keep a respectful distance as the Empress made her entrance.

The Empress greeted all the Grey Wardens with a sweep of her arms and a thank you, imploring them to have a wonderful time that evening. "Dance and live, tonight is your night!"

The Grey Wardens cheered.

When the Empress was done speaking, the Warden and Leliana made their way into the courtyard. When they had arrived earlier that day, they'd seen mages hard at work in the gardens, growing plants and lighting blue and white magelights for ambience, but they hadn't realized the full extent of their efforts. The Empress sought to make her courtyard look like a secret Dalish paradise, and she had succeeded. The smoldering husks of hedgerows were gone, and in their place was only grass, fresh and green. Around the courtyard and arranged in circles of six were large toadstools that the Warden recognized from the Wilds around Flemeth's hut. The toadstools were a mossy grey, with thick, squat stalks and gently sloping caps that made them comfortable stools. And indeed, Grey Wardens were already availing themselves of them.

The mages had also done practical landscaping around the courtyard, growing flowers and ivy around the many different wooden gazebos that the Empress had commanded be constructed for her guests. They were grown so thickly and so dense around the wood that they obscured all traces of them and made the gazebos appear to be made completely from the plants. Perhaps most strikingly, the mages had plugged the gaping hole in the palace's wall with rows upon rows of flowery vines. It likely cost the Empress a fortune to borrow the mages for such a purpose, and there was no doubt the Grand Cleric and the Senior Enchanter were at that moment swimming in gold coins.

The Empress's throne had been moved into the courtyard, the great, gilded swan of her chair having been laid at the base of the stairs. Both women were mindful not to bump into it as they went to join the festivities.

The Warden searched around the courtyard, looking for Loghain amidst the other Grey Wardens, but she could neither make out Loghain nor Dane's familiar form. The Warden knew exactly what to look for in his costume, having seen the sketch of it, but nothing in her memory matched the descriptions in front of her. She would have frowned, but with only half a mask on her face and a smattering of gemstones around one eye, she did not want anyone to see her displeasure.

"I do not feel very disguised," the Warden said quietly to Leliana.

Leliana, whose mask extended across both eyes, put a gentle hand on the Warden's back. "You would not be able to hide even with the mask, Aurora!"

The Warden only sighed and delicately lifted her skirts so she wouldn't trip on them as she walked. "Did you ever find someone to take you?"

"Oh, yes," Leliana pointed at a man in a bright blue tunic with black trousers. "He's over there. He is called Alaric, he said he knows you."

"I do. He seems quite a nice fellow."

"I had to corner him like a little mouse," Leliana waved at Alaric, who seemed to shrink away at the attention, "I do not think he knows how to act around women."

"It is because you smell." The Warden winced as Leliana playfully nudged her in the side. "Oh, but this dress is too tight for that." She observed Alaric chatting away with a man in plain brown garb. "What is his costume?"

"I think he may be some sort of exotic birdie. He did not really say. He was too busy trying to talk me out of taking him." At the slow humming of a string instrument and the light tapping of a drum, Leliana began to smirk. "I think he looks like he wishes to dance, yes?"

"Truly, you are a vicious woman." The Warden gave Leliana a friendly pat on the shoulder and shoved her in the direction of Alaric. "Enjoy it!"

Leliana waltzed away with the ruffling of perfumed silks, setting out after Alaric who saw her coming and was now darting away to the furthest gazebo he could find.

Left alone to one side of the throne, the Warden used the opportunity to observe the different circles of party goers. She counted more people in the courtyard than just Grey Wardens and their spouses, which meant that the Empress had likely supplemented her party with her courtiers and knights. Given the level of quality of the Grey Wardens' costumes, it was hard to distinguish who was of noble blood and who was of tainted blood. At this party, everyone was equal, save for the Empress.

The Swan of Orlais was chatting animatedly with a group of revelers at the closest set of toadstools. In her midst was a bull (characterized by the large horns on either side of his head), a snake (the detailing of the woman's gown was definitely serpentine in nature), a lion (the woman's hair was even styled into a great, shaggy mane, the likes the Warden had only ever seen drawn in the books of Highever's library), and several others in tunics and gowns of bright, flashy colors which the Warden could only assume were exotic birds of some sort.

Movement from the corner of her eye drew her attention back to the present. A figure was approaching her: tall, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips, and dressed from head to toe in black. At a distance, he looked like Loghain, but as he got closer, the Warden saw that he was missing the small, tell-tale up turn of the mask's corners to imitate ears. This man was a horse, as evidenced by the coarse strands of mane that hung over each shoulder and the trailing beadwork and leather straps across the lower half of his face. It was not Loghain.

"My lady," came the voice of the Chevalier Dirigeant, "why do you stand so apart from your fellows?"

"I was deciding," the Warden lied with a wide smile, "which of the groups to join! And I'll admit, I was trying to guess who everyone was before I spoke to them."

Geoffroi gave a quiet chuckle at her response. "You would have the advantage over those of us not in the Grey Wardens. We would not recognize many of your fellows, even after speaking to them."

"We are not much to look at, and so blend together to the untrained eye," she winked at him with her good eye, and the Chevalier Dirigeant seemed to be taken aback by this. The Warden checked her behavior. Good natured flirting was, apparently, not something the Dirigeant was receptive to. She gave a small laugh and shook her head. "Tell me truthfully, Ser," she said to deflect his discomfort, "which of these small circles would you recommend to me?"

"Hmmm," the Dirigeant sidled beside her, maintaining a respectful distance between them, as he observed the small groups from her angle. "I think," he said after some length, "that you would find pleasure in that group," he pointed a black gloved hand towards a group of women in pastel gowns on the far side of the courtyard, perched on toadstools near a gazebo.

"Then I shall head there at once." The Warden tipped her head courteously to the Dirigeant and turned to move, but found a gentle hand touch her upper arm.

"No woman should walk alone," he said with a kind smile.

From any other man, Geoffroi's attentions and comments would have seemed disingenuous and patronizing. But from him, they were earnest and well intentioned. This was a man who lived by strict tenants and doctrines, who adhered to a code of honor and held himself to the highest standard that a man could be. No doubt Loghain would have disagreed with the need for such a tangled and unnecessary code, likely claiming that one didn't need a complex ethical system to be a good man.

But Loghain was not there.

Geoffroi offered his arm to the Warden, which she took without hesitation. Chevalier he most certainly was; handsome and diligent, Geoffroi escorted her from one end of the grounds to the other.

"I chose this group because I wish to introduce you to my wife," he said in his deep voice, his Orlesian rich and perfectly accented, "Her name is Solange, and she is all that is good and bright in my world. I think you will like her, Lady Cousland."

"If she is all that you have claimed," replied the Warden with a kind smile, "I am sure that I will, Dirigeant."

The Chevalier Dirigeant led them to the small circle of women who were chattering and puttering about like hens in a yard. Their pastel colored dresses were a variety of shades, though Solange stood out instantly in her muted, hunter's green dress. Her mask was decorated in a variety of small emeralds and topaz gemstones, and was embellished with…

"Grass," said Geoffroi as he explained his wife's costume. "As the Empress commanded me to come as my standard, the stallion, I bade my wife come as grass." His voice had taken on a dreamy, faraway quality, and he spoke as if describing a vision that had come to him during the night. He took his arm from the Warden's and extended his hand to his lady. "The healthy stallion cannot sustain himself without its nourishment, and as he relies on its succor, so too do I rely on the Lady Solange to keep my body and spirit whole."

The green clad Solange swept towards him on dainty, dancer's feet, pressing past the women who were swooning on top of each other behind her. They clasped their bodices and fanned their necks, releasing a collective sigh. Solange paid their jealous looks no mind as she dipped into a low bow and brought the hand he had offered to her lips.

"My lord is gracious and kind to me," she said quietly, dipping her forehead to touch his knuckles.

In the flickering of the mage light, the Warden could see that her eyes were a brilliant blue, almost violet color. Large and round, they held room for no other man, no other person, than her husband.

Lady Solange rose when Geoffroi clasped her hand and gently tugged her forward.

"My lady and wife," he said, "I wish to introduce you to Lady Aurora Cousland, the Warden Commander of Ferelden."

"Lady _Cousland, _did you say?" Solange turned her dazzling eyes to the Warden. From the tone in which she spoke, it was obvious that she had heard the name before. "My lady," she dipped into a small curtsey, "you are welcome in our house and home. Let it not be said that the House of Durand-Camille would deny the House of Cousland honor and hospitality."

The Warden had some trouble understanding Lady Solange because of the great formality in which she spoke. Her Orlesian sounded almost archaic. Returning the words with a curtsey of her own, the Warden gave her a small bow. "And let us forever be friends."

"Solange," Geoffroi took his wife's hands in his, "I must return to my duties. I will return to you when I am able. Be kind to the Lady Cousland, and make her feel welcome amongst your friends and ladies."

"I will, husband."

With Solange's sweet smile in his heart and mind, Geoffroi turned and moved in the direction of the Empress. This caused the Warden to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

"Is he not yours for the night, Lady Solange?"

"No," Solange gave a delicate shrug of her shoulders and placed a hand on the Warden's arm. "The Empress asked for his service this evening, and he is honor bound to give it. I have come here with my youngest son." She inclined her head in the direction of a group of tall, masculine youths. "He is squired to the former Dirigeant, and so was in the city." Solange chuckled at the look of surprise on the Warden's face. "You seem quite offended at the thought of my husband attending to another woman."

"I would be quite offended," admitted the Warden.

"When you are married to a Chevalier," said Solange, "you are marrying his top priority: Orlais. I knew that there would be times when he would have to put me aside to carry out his duties, and were he another man, I might find the strength within me to complain. But my husband is possessed of the strongest virtues I have ever known in a man."

"Too bad there is no such thing as a man who loves virtue more than sex."

Solange's face went white at the sudden interruption. Her hands reflexively went to her ears in shock, as if touching them would somehow allow her to pluck the offending images the words had conjured away.

There was a squabbling cackle of laughter, and the Warden turned to see that the women in their pastel dresses were now crooning and fawning over a masked figure in brown. The subtle buzzing in the back of her mind felt familiar, though she needed no prompting from her innate Grey Warden senses to know exactly who could be so crass. "Ah, so the Grey Princeling is here, is he?"

Vidar's mouth was the only part of his face exposed, and it immediately pursed at her words.

The Warden smirked when she saw the reaction. If there was indeed some royal pedigree in Vidar as Andraste's words had suggested, it was a point of contention for him. "Forgive him, Lady Solange. His mother did not teach him any manners. He does not speak often, but when he does, always are his words filled with vitriol and bile."

"The Fereldan wants to talk of manners, _pah._" Vidar wrapped an arm around a woman in pink that was leaning into him as he spoke. "Come back when you've had a bath or two. I can barely tolerate your stink."

There was a growl from behind the Warden, which was followed by a familiar voice. "Watch your mouth when you speak to the Warden Commander, whelp. This _Fereldan_ cannot tolerate you _at all._" It was the Mabari versus the Wolf.

The Warden's eye widened. _Loghain. _

Vidar gave an over exaggerated shrug. "Then feel free to go away. I'm done talking to you boring Fereldan peasants anyway."

Lady Solange visibly shuddered, whispering to the Warden, "what a young man who is worthy of our pity! We should go elsewhere."

"You go on ahead," the Warden whispered back absently, too busy pulling away from the Dirigeant's wife so that she could face her Second. She could not help the smile that spread across her face when she saw him.

Loghain's clothes looked all black in the magelight and starlight, but she knew that his tunic was actually a dark shade of grey. There was white detailing on his sleeves that trailed up the high neck of his tunic, all the way to the mask that curled down to his jaw. It was supposed to resemble a mabari's kaddis, and indeed, it looked identical to the white kaddis that Dane had been freshly painted with. His hair was loose, though held back by two small braids that obscured the strap of the mask.

"You look like a grey version of Dane!" exclaimed the Warden.

"And you look…" Loghain faltered. He did not know exactly what she looked like, only _how _she looked… which was stunning. "Beautiful. You look beautiful." Loghain was reminded of the night when he had seen Rowan in her red dress in the woods, a speck of color brighter than any sunset and deeper than any rose. She had fled from him, darting away into the night, when he had pressed a suit that was not his to press. But the Warden was not recoiling from him. She was not fleeing from him like a ghost amidst the graves or a forgotten idea. She seemed to be glowing, humming with excitement and pleasure at seeing him. She was within reach of his arms, and he knew that if he wrapped them around her she would probably stay there too.

At his words, the Warden's face split into an ear-to-ear grin. She could not manage a dignified expression of joy, though it did strike her that she would prefer to exchange compliments with Loghain away from the murmuring and cooing behind her. She offered her hand to him, noticing that Loghain took it without much reservation. Instead of letting her lead, however, he tucked her hand below his arm and led her to a quieter part of the courtyard and one of the unoccupied gazebos.

It was only when they were settled inside it that the Warden noticed that Dane was wearing a teeny, tiny bow on his stumpy tail. "Oh, my poor Ser Dane," she crooned, leaning forward as much as her corset would allow. The tops of her breasts were pressed high against her chest, giving Loghain an eyeful of the Warden that was indecent to see for a man not intimate with her. "Did Loghain do this to you?"

Dane trotted to his mistress and promptly sat, his backside resounding with a loud thump against the wood. He gave a whimper of pain at her. The bow, it hurt so terribly.

"Loghain," she said, pitching her voice low, "Why would you do such a thing to poor Ser Dane?"

"He deserved it. Scoundrel ate my dinner, didn't you, you mutt."

Dane only whimpered again. He had been _hungry. _

"There's no arguing with him," the Warden heaved a sigh of resignation. "It was a fitting punishment, Loghain. And a very tasteful one. I think the red brings out the color of his coat."

The Mabari made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and flopped to the gazebo's floor. "_Wuff_."

The Warden settled back against one of the gazebo's support struts and stretched out her legs. She let a comfortable silence between them, closing her good eye in the safety of Loghain's watchful stare.

Loghain took the opportunity to examine her gown, finding the cut of it curious. From the almost sheer red of the accent's cloth, it looked as though she was showing off her underskirts. And he supposed she might just be doing that; the Orlesians were not particularly known for their modest fashions. (He already knew that from the way the dress was cut and shaped, and the way the two mounds of white flesh were popping out from a bodice that tried too hard to flatten its wearer's body.) In Ferelden, the style was to cover one's self from head to toe with fashionable, hand woven cloth. Embellishment came in the form of embroidery or belts used to tighten and flatten the figure.

Eamon Guerrin would probably collapse and die of shock if he saw the Warden dressed as she was now.

"You look very handsome," said the Warden quietly. "Those colors suit you."

"You can't even see my face and you call me handsome_?_" Loghain gave a quiet chuckle. "I suppose I will take that for the compliment that it is."

"I do not need to see you without the mask to know it."

"What do you plan to do," Loghain asked dryly, "with my ego once you've inflated it?"

"Destroy it when you least expect it," she replied back with a quick wink.

Loghain said nothing to that, merely bobbing his head as he observed the reflections of light around the diamonds around the Warden's eyes. "Do those things not distract you?"

"What things?"

He gestured to his face. "The gemstones."

"Oh," the Warden shook her head, "no, not at all."

The glinting of gold caught Loghain's eye as she shook her head, and he realized that she was wearing his combs. He hadn't noticed them before because they were the same shade of gold as her hair, but here in the shade of the gazebo he could see the contrast. In fact, beyond the hair combs and the gems around her eye, those were the _only _pieces of jewelry she was wearing. He searched her neck and hands for pendants and rings, but there was no trace of gold, silver, or gemstone. Her only adornment was the one he had bought her.

The Warden noticed the slight part of Loghain's mouth. "Are you all right?"

"You opened it."

"I did?"

Loghain reached out a hand to touch her hair, but fell short. He managed to skirt a fingertip across her temple before pulling his hand away. "The hair combs."

"Oh!" She smiled, an awkward and girlish thing, "Yes, I did. I wanted to surprise you. Thank you for buying them. They are very beautiful."

"They look like the Cousland crest."

The Warden put a hand to her mouth in surprise. "I had not noticed that when I saw them. But…now that you mention it, you're absolutely right."

"I thought that was the reason you were attracted them."

The Warden shook her head. "There was a pair of hair combs," she explained quietly, "that was passed down in my family from mother to eldest daughter. The combs survived the Werewolves, they survived the Rebellion, but they did not survive the Massacre. When Howe took Castle Cousland and sacked our treasury and took all of our possessions, I thought I might never see them again. And I haven't. But these," the Warden touched one with a reverent finger, "are almost identical, and they make the pain of their permanent loss bearable."

"But they are still a substitute."

"I never said they were a replacement," she flashed Loghain a sad smile, "just that they made me feel better."

"They look very nice on you."

"Thank you. You have excellent taste."

Loghain shook his head at that, but the curve of his lips said that he was smiling nonetheless. They fell into yet another friendly silence. Loghain much preferred these moments with the Warden to others. In all of Loghain's life, words accomplished little more than to break his fragile peace. Words were hurtful because they could be wielded as a knife to harm, and as a shield to distance. Words made promises quickly and broke promises easily. Any man could proclaim himself good and honest, but it was only in the man's action or silence that the truth could really be found.

The Warden put her hand on Loghain's knee, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her second tilted his head curiously at her, and she smiled at him again. "I really appreciate that you came tonight."

"I am surprised to admit it but," he put his hand over hers, "I am glad that I came too. I half expected that you would be doing something inane, like dancing. I am happy to be mistaken." He saw the way her mouth dropped. "Oh. Maker help me."

"I was hoping for a dance or two."

Loghain shuddered. "I loathe the idea of it."

"Surely, you can dance though?"

"I can," Loghain said dismissively, "but I won't dance here."

The Warden made a sound of displeasure in the hollow of her throat. "And why not?"

"Why should it matter?"

"Are you embarrassed?" asked the Warden quietly, deliberately whispering and looking over each shoulder. "Do you dance poorly?"

"No," he replied in a biting tone, "it is one of my secret talents."

"Oh, well, we can do a trade then!" The Warden took his hand between both of hers and toyed with his fingers. "We can do a trade."

Loghain's eyebrows rose, though the mask obscured this from view. She was turning his sarcasm against him. "And what are you trading in exchange for a dance from me?"

"I also have a secret talent."

Loghain grunted. "And what would that be?"

"I can sing."

Loghain's eyes narrowed. "You can sing. You're exchanging a song for a dance?"

"I most certainly am. I sing quite well too. Mother had me take lessons when I was young because she thought the exertion of it would be good for my lungs. It was." She laughed and tilted her head away from him, eye closing. "Just do not tell anyone." She shook her head. "It would be most embarrassing to be called upon to sing at a salon, so I cannot imagine how dreadful it would be to be called upon to sing in front of Grey Warden guests."

"I imagine it would be about as horrible as being forced to dance in front of Orlesians," he remarked dryly.

"Dance with me," the Warden said quietly. She shifted to face him, placing both her hands on his knees and leaning forward so that their noses were almost touching. "Dance with me," she repeated more slowly, "and I will sing for you tonight."

Loghain felt like a fly being cocooned in a spider's web. Every second he stared into the unfathomable grey of the Warden's eye drew him in deeper and deeper. He did not want to assume that her words meant anything more than they did, and yet… "Very well," his tongue worked to form the words. "I will dance with you, provided that you sing for me."

She nodded.

"_One _dance only."

"One song only then."

He nodded.

The gauntlet set, both Grey Wardens stood and regarded each other with a sort of nervous excitement. Like lovers preparing to kiss or a child contemplating taking their first plunge into deep water, the Wardens tiptoed around the small ring of glowing mushrooms that comprised the Empress's dance floor.

There were already pairs of masked dancers swirling inside the ring. The Empress was inside, waltzing a slow and sensuous dance with the Chevalier Dirigeant. As he spun her, the hem of her gown rose and displayed the tiny, controlled movements of her slender, slippered feet. Loghain thought he spied Andraste and Serge inside the dance ring as well, assuming that the couple in brown and red with hair to match were the First and Second of Val Royeaux. The others Loghain could not possibly identify, nor could the Warden.

The Warden tilted her head in Loghain's direction. "We will wait for the next song." She extended her gloved hand to Dane, who had followed them, and he bumped his large hand against it. "And you will have to sit here, my handsome dog."

Loghain watched the different dancers' moves with studious intent. He compared their movements with the various ones he had in his limited repertoire. They did not appear so different, except that their movements were reversed in direction to his. This did not bother Loghain; if it meant knocking Orlesians to the floor in order to show them the proper way to dance, then so be it.

It was all too soon before the song ended and the group of minstrels the Empress had employed struck up a new tune. The Warden recognized it as an Antivan song, having heard it sung to her before by Leliana. She had explained that it was about a man who had fallen in love with a woman who did not return his affection. He had been powerless against love's whims, unarmed when he was struck by her beauty, and dismayed that she did not feel the same. It reminded her of Loghain; Loghain and all the women who had come before her.

They took their places on the dance floor, extended a hand to one another, and then gave courteous dips as the tune began to strengthen. Straightening and with their hands gently touching, they circled one another in one direction, and then the other, until they had come full circle twice. With a small tug, Loghain drew the Warden close. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he slipped his hand up her back and splayed it between her shoulder blades. His free hand grasped hers lightly, and with a look of trepidation on his face, he set them off on the dance.

It was a dance that had been popular in Ferelden shortly before the invasion of Orlais and one that had stuck with the homeless and troubled nobles. It had also been a particular favorite of Rowan's, though not one of Maric's. Truth be told, it had been an easier dance for him to master than the ridiculous prancing Maric had taught him. Instead of a variety of small, complex steps, this dance relied only on three basic steps: a large one to direct, and then two smaller steps to readjust.

He was pleased to see that the Warden knew it. She followed his lead without complaint. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his, and see the faint sheen of sweat that was dotting her brow from the heat of the gown and the exertion of the dance. She was also smiling at him in a dreamy sort of way, her lips half-way parted so that her breath puffed in hot little bursts against his chin. It was enough to make Loghain forget about the Orlesians and Grey Wardens watching them. He wasn't in Orlais anymore. He was in Ferelden, and the army surrounding him was cheering on its victory as the woman in his arms led them to freedom. The rolling crescendo of the song mirrored the war beat in his blood, just as his heart mirrored the beat of hers.

At the song's end, the Warden sunk low into a curtsey. She mimicked what she had seen Lady Solange do to the Dirigeant, and placed Loghain's fingers to her forehead. Her eyes darted up to his face, which held a strange sort of half smile.

"What does that look mean?" the Warden asked as she rose. She ushered him away from the glowing mushroom ring, abiding by their earlier terms. "I didn't step on your toes, did I?"

"No," Loghain shook his head. "Not at all."

"You didn't step on mine either. You dance very well. Stiff," she murmured, "but with excellent execution."

"You are the judger of dancers in Thedas now, are you?" remarked Loghain as he once more folded the Warden's hand under his arm.

"I have had my toes stepped on a fair number of times during that dance before, I'll have you know."

"Indeed."

Loghain was going to lead them back to their little gazebo, but he could see it was already being occupied by an amorous pair of individuals. He gave a sound of displeasure, and looked around for somewhere else to retreat to. Unfortunately, it appeared as though most of the people had now split into small groups of two or three, if they were not otherwise occupied dancing.

"Do you intend to stay here and make small talk with anyone?" asked Loghain, "or have we done our part and can now leave?"

The Warden looked around and saw exactly what Loghain had. She spied Leliana talking with the Empress, Lady Solange, and the Dirigeant, and thought her friend to be in good hands. "I think we can go now, yes. Let me just thank the Empress, and we can depart."

Loghain did not accompany the Warden as she went to say goodbye, and instead watched from a distance as she embraced the Empress of Orlais and Leliana. To the Chevalier Commander and his wife she gave a nod of her head, and then she was sweeping up her skirts and gliding back towards him amidst the magelights.

"Come, Loghain," she extended her hand to him, "let us return."

Through the dim streets of Orlais they strolled, leaving the palace and the revelry behind them. The city was quiet and free of travelers. The only people they saw were guards on patrol. The guards walked to and from the Grey Warden compound, so that none of the Empress's guests could be harassed or robbed on their ways home.

With Dane trotting behind them all the way, the Grey Wardens soon found themselves behind the familiar wooden walls of their apartment. Mara had lit candles in the common room and placed a tray of things that were sweet and baked on a table for hungry revelers to munch on when they returned. Both Loghain and the Warden abstained from the pastries, though they did feed Dane two of them.

And then, at last, they were at the Warden's door. The only illumination in the dark hallway was the lights of candles from beneath the doors that lined it.

The Warden turned to go inside, but was stopped by Loghain. He placed a hand on the doorframe to block her path and looked down into the Warden's masked face. "You have a song for me, I believe."

She lowered her eyes, letting her eyelashes fan against her cheeks. "I do, don't I?" She tilted her chin to the door, "Come in then, Loghain. And I shall sing to you."

Loghain removed his hand and allowed the Warden to slip the key she had been carrying in a discreet pocket in her sleeve into the lock. The door creaked open and she ushered him inside, touching the small of his back as she did so. Dane scrambled in after Loghain and then assumed his position on the small couch in the corner of the Warden's room.

Sitting on the vanity stool, Loghain watched as the Warden began to peel off her gemstones and then remove her mask. He did the same, untying the knot which kept it tightly bound to his face. With gentle reverence, the Warden slipped the hair combs from her hair and laid them gently on the vanity drawer before him.

And that was when she began to sing. Seated on the edge of the vanity, but with her legs pulled up so that they rested in Loghain's lap, she sang to him of Andraste and the Maker. She sang of the glorious, barbarian woman who overthrew the Tevinter Imperium, and how she had danced before Maferath and her generals to inspire them. They ran their fingers through her hair and touched her white ankles in reverence and swore to die for her, except Maferath, who swore that no husband should be second to another. He touched her with fire, and so Andraste was consumed in the flesh by it, as her soul was by the Maker's.

Loghain listened to her weave her tale, his hands gently resting against her knees as she sang to him. As she sang to him, her hands had gone into her hair and had begun to loosen it from its tight fastening. With each new chorus, half-straightened curls began to tumble down her back, turning her already fair countenance into an inviting image of home and comfort. Her voice was clear and strong like a clarion call, and of higher pitch than Celia's had been. Celia had been, by far, the better singer, yet it was still a delight to listen to, and when she was done, he took her hands between his and smiled. "I have cheated you, I think," he said gently. "That alone was worth at least ten dances."

The Warden went pink at the praise and ducked her head. "Thank you."

"Oh no, thank _you._"

She peaked at him from under a veil of curls and then, with a gentle, deliberate movement, leaned forward over her knees and planted a soft kiss against Loghain's lips. She watched his reaction, gauging every moment she was in flight towards him. His blue eyes, intense and uncertain, followed the path of her lips as she neared him, and then shut at their contact.

His hands came up to her shoulders and he pulled her down atop him so that she was now settled in his lap. He held her there, lips pressed to his, his eyes shut, until he felt her fingers gently threading through his hair.

"I desire this," she whispered against his mouth, trying to ease his uncertainty.

Loghain's gripped her shoulders tightly, "I don't think you know what you're asking for."

The Warden shook her head and stood, moving away to the door that she had forgotten to lock earlier. With a gentle flick of her wrist she snapped the lock into place and sent a smoldering look over her shoulder at Loghain: there was no escape.

Common sense was lost, and Loghain charged to war. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and strode towards her, his plan of attack having formed. He ran his hands over her waist and up and down her back, deciding how to begin.

The dress had to go. Unfortunately, getting her out of the Orlesian ball gown was a trying affair. She stood delicately before him, looking at him coyly from over her shoulder and daring for him to reach out and attack the pretty little laces that separated her from him. He touched his fingers to the skin of her back, tracing the edge of the dress with a callused fingertip. He heard her exhale slowly at the touch, her eye darting to his face. Her lips quirked upward into a half smile.

"Has the Hero of River Dane," she said in that low voice that sent all his common sense throbbing elsewhere in his body, "met his match in silken strings and Orlesian brocade?" It was followed by a throaty chuckle and twin touches to her chest from her scrubbed and perfumed hands.

Loghain contemplated the knife that he had stuffed into his boot for good measure, twisting the Orlesian leather and slicing away at the lining to make a convenient pocket. It would be _so easy _to just slice through all those little strings.

The Warden gave a gasp as she felt warmed metal slither across her shoulders. "You had better not do what - "

But he did. And the Warden winced as the sound of the knife through the lacings reached her ears. The dress fell away, pushed aside by Loghain's large, battle worn hands. They were warm against her cool skin as he dragged the gown forward over her shoulders and then sharply down her arms. He trapped the Warden in the embroidered silk, pinning her arms within her sleeves as the bodice was wedged just over the edge her hips. He dropped a kiss to the curve of her neck and then slipped the knife through the strings of the corset. He did the same thing to the thin cotton of the chemise, slicing it from neck to waist. All these layers he pushed away until he found the Warden's skin. Along the curve of her waist he placed them, and then slid them up under her arms and up her ribs to cup her breasts.

The Warden laughed at that. "Oh, _you. _ Really? Truly? All that for _that_?"

"I am a simple man," replied Loghain, smiling against her shoulder, "I like simple things. I make no apologies for it." He rolled a nipple between his fingers and felt the Warden squirm in his arms.

"Ah ha, _well_," the Warden pulled against the prison of the gown and freed one of her arms. She used it to free her other arm and shimmied the dress down over her hips to join the discarded corset on the floor. Her eyes fluttered shut as Loghain began to plant kisses up and down her neck and shoulder. She felt his tongue trailing along the skin and smiled crookedly. "That feels nice."

"Does it?" asked Loghain, dragging his hands down her body to settle at her hips. He toyed with the toggles that kept the thin, red petticoat in place, methodically unfastening one, and then the other, before pushing the offending thing over her hips. It left the Warden standing in only her ridiculously frilly smalls; smalls that were meant to emphasize the generous swells of a woman's rear, and were doing just that with the Warden.

"Yes, it does." The Warden crossed her arms in front of herself and sent Loghain another coy look over her shoulder. She stiffened in surprise as Loghain was suddenly leaning down to her side and inspecting the scar left by the Antivan's blade, the blemish revealed to him with the movement. Mara had healed the skin over the stitches, leaving the skin pebbled and misshapen.

Loghain drew a finger over the scar, frowning deeply. "Is that what I think it is?"

"That depends what you think it is."

He shot her a look to not play games with him about the issue.

"It is."

"You live a charmed life," he said in a somber tone.

"I think that makes two of us."

A faint smile drew itself across Loghain's face. "I suppose." He extended his hands to her shoulders and gently bade her turn to face him. Her feet shuffled in the mass of Orlesian fabric around her ankles. He watched the way she protectively covered herself with her arms with some amusement. He raised an eyebrow at her coquettish behavior. "I think it's a bit late to hide them from me."

"You can see them when you're in a similar state," replied the Warden in an imperious tone. "Or when I'm ready for you to see them." She stepped over the fabric and pressed herself against Loghain's chest. Her elbows went to his shoulders and her hands to his hair. She framed his face with her forearms and placed a light kiss on his lips. Her tongue darted out to tease at the corner of his mouth, and she felt his arms wrap around her waist. His hands splayed across her skin, drawing her close, his nails tracing scars and welts.

Loghain's kiss was more aggressive than the Warden's, and he assaulted her with lips, teeth, and tongue. The Warden was quick to draw back before the kiss became too impassioned, slithering away from him with a sinuous twist of her hips and the slide of her breasts slipping down against his chest. "What is it?" he asked as she drew away.

"I want," she said, placing a hand on his chest, "for us to start again."

"From where?"

"The night where we…" She let it hang in the air between them, their horrible shared secret. "I want to start again from there." The Warden put a finger to Loghain's lips as he opened his mouth to reply. She felt his breath warming her skin. "You said you would be whatever I wanted you to be. I have been considering it carefully, and I have decided that I want you to be _mine._ Under my terms."

Loghain raised an eyebrow at the vehemence of her words. "It works both ways, you know," he said from behind her finger. "If I give myself to you," he held her gaze, his eyes intense and blue, "you also give yourself to me."

"So long," she said quietly, "as you recognize _me, _I _think _I can survive such an arrangement." Her lips quirked into a smile. "I want this to work, Loghain. I am willing to make it work, if you are. But I am not Rowan, Loghain. I never will be, and the comparison shames both of us. I will not let us do this if we are both - "

He pulled her hand away from his mouth with a gentle tug on her wrist. He should have been irritated that she kept coming back to his mistake, but he found himself feeling rather sympathetic and sorry. He probably would have felt equally as foolish and angry if she had called him Alistair, and any words extolling Alistair's virtues would have seemed hollow to his ears. 'I'm so sorry I called you Alistair! But truly, he is kind and strong and brave as you are!' Every excuse and platitude would be a painful reminder of the fact that, when it came down to it, he wasn't the one she wanted. And he surmised that every comparison to Rowan people made of her, the more she felt she was living in the shadow of another woman. And each time Loghain made the mistake that shadow only lengthened.

He had to do right by both of those women, and it would begin with the one standing in front of him, just in reach of his arms. "I do not want you to be," he said in a firm voice, leaving her no room to argue. "More to the point, I do not need you to be. I am old, Aurora," and he said this with his bitter, rueful smile that he saved for idealistic girls with skinned knees and scraped knuckles, "and I fear the Joining has taken from my mind what it has added to my appetite." He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek, brushing the skin there gently. "It is a poor excuse for what happened, and I am sorry. I've done you a great disservice, and were our places reversed, I wouldn't like it much either."

"Just do not make the same mistake again," she closed her eye and leaned into the touch, "that is all I ask."

Loghain brought his other hand up and gently threaded his fingers through her hair. He let the silken strands slip through his fingers, thumbs stroking the curves of curls as they passed. "I have learnt from my mistakes," he chuckled, "I promise you."

"Good." She drew close to him once more, and punctuated her words with small kisses across his jaw. "Let us savor each other then. No hurried coupling, no mistaken identities. Let it just be you and I, as it was meant to be."

"And you are sure this is what you want?" He dragged his thumbs across her cheeks, the tops skirting her eyelashes. He kept her a respectful distance from him, holding her at arm's length.

"You say that," the Warden said with a tinge of amusement, "as if you do not."

"What I want," Loghain replied, "is irrelevant."

After a few moments of fluttering her eyelashes in confusion, her expression soured. She frowned and her lips set into a hard line. The Warden pulled away from his hands and away from him. She stalked to her vanity, long legs framed by the high stockings and Orlesian pumps she wore. "I'll not force you, Loghain. Be honest with me." She perched herself on the small dresser's edge, crossing her arms over her chest once again.

Loghain thought she looked very much like one of Cailan's favorite paintings. It featured a nude Orlesian courtesan staring off the side of the canvas with a look of pain on her face. Her arms were covering her nudity with a delicate trembling that Cailan had claimed he could feel if he touched the thing. The title of the painting had been called _Fall From Grace, _and was supposedly based on the old Orlesian fable of the House of Moreau. Lord Moreau had lost most of his wealth to debtors and gambling, and had placed his youngest daughter into the care of a fabled madam, who sold her to the highest noble bidder. One such bidder had been the King of Orlais, and he had been so taken by the girl's modesty and innocent charms, he had made her his queen. Loghain was no Orlesian king, and the Warden was certainly no fancy Orlesian courtesan, but they certainly looked the parts, him in his fine tunic and pants, and the Warden in nothing but her skin and unmentionables.

"I'm a simple man with simple tastes, and I have long irritated everyone with them," Loghain said again. "I like land to call my own. I like having hot food, a bed, and a roof over my head."

"And a warm body beside you?" asked the Warden, "what of that?"

"It never occurred to me," he admitted, "that I might get the opportunity again. Understand me when I say," and Loghain crossed to her, and laid his hands on the tops of her shoulders, "that I have become fixed in my routine. I wake alone, I take my time alone, and I sleep alone."

"Would it be so bad to wake with me?"

"It is the opposite I'm concerned about." He gave a gentle squeeze of his hands and looked into her earnest features. "I can't imagine why you'd want to wake up beside _me_."

The Warden chewed her lip as she considered what he said. "And you aren't just fishing for compliments?"

"I am well past the days when that mattered to me."

"If it ever did at all," the Warden murmured, touching a long finger to his brow and then tracing it down his cheek to linger at the curve of his jaw. She repeated the touch between his eyebrows, and drew her finger slowly down the curve of his nose. "I like your nose. It is very proud. Like you. You are proud, stubborn, and you are very arrogant sometimes." She gave him an impish smile. "But so am I. Heroes can be arrogant, yes?"

"Humble, girl," chastised Loghain, closing his eyes as she continued her feather light touches along his features. He felt her finger tips trace a scar hidden by his thick eye brows, and caress the wrinkles that were forming in his forehead and along his mouth. The lion suffered the lamb's touches. "Heroes should be humble."

"Of course," she said quietly, "humble, yes, you, most definitely. A humble farmer…an honest, _Fereldan _man. With hands," and these she took in her own, sliding them from her shoulders, "that fought and killed for my freedom. That tilled the earth and fed a family. These are good hands, strong hands, and they belong to a good man. An admirable man." She planted delicate little kisses along the tips of his fingers before releasing them.

Loghain's eyes opened when he felt her arms encircle his neck.

"There is nothing for me," the Warden looked at him with a steady gaze, "in the arms of younger men. What do they know of the world? What do they know of tragedy, and war, and love? How have they proved their quality?" She raised her eyebrows knowingly at him. "I may be young, but I have seen more than most. I lived a life that only a handful of men and women will ever obtain, doing more in a year than they could ever hope to do in a lifetime. I am old inside, Loghain, so very old, and the only match I have in all the world is you."

"You must have a dreary, bitter, old soul if that is true."

She chuckled. "I do."

Loghain gave a shake of his head in disbelief. "I am unsure what to make of you sometimes."

"I know what to make of you, at least," she replied. "So at least one of us is certain."

"And what am I?" he asked with a small shake of his head, forgetting that the woman who had entwined herself around him was nearly naked and that her breasts were pressing against his chest and she had one long leg wrapped around his thighs. She was like a vine of honeysuckle wrapping itself around a stone pillar in one of Gwaren's gardens, all soft and golden…

"A good, honest, _Fereldan _man who has shared in what I have."

Her words resonated with him. Loghain supposed it was all probably true: in experience, there was likely no one her own age that could match her, except maybe Alistair, and even then he had proved to be a poor companion it seemed. Loghain had lived through two wars, been raised from the ranks of the commoners to that of the nobility, and had learned to run a kingdom as well as an army. He had farmed, fought, and failed in his lifetime. And yet there were still things that lay between him and the pretty young girl who was murmuring in his ear to take her to bed. "I am not as honest as you think."

"You need to stop," she whispered, her eyes closing and her nose rubbing against his, "you need to stop doubting yourself so much. And if you choose to doubt, at least trust in me and what I say. Let me be the judge of what you are. I want your glory, Loghain, and I want your shame. I want your lies and truths, and I wish to share mine with you too, so that we may be equals in all things."

Loghain shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, a raw laugh escaping his lips. The Warden drew back away from him, her petals closing in the absence of sun.

"Fair enough," she said quietly, slipping her legs and arms away from him. "I was evidently mistaken." Her arms folded across her chest, and she settled herself once more upon the vanity, using it as a perch. "Enjoy your evening, Loghain. I'll trouble you no longer with this, provided you do the same."

"Trouble me? No," Loghain shook his head, "you misunderstand, I am just having trouble believing how _lucky _I am. I don't know what I did," his hands cupped her cheeks, "to deserve this. Surely, you come with a price greater than I can pay, and here you _willingly _offer yourself to me. I'm a lucky bastard."

"And you just now realize this?" the Warden gave him a wry smile.

He answered her with a kiss, hesitant, but deep, with a long, slow wriggling of tongues that mirrored the caresses of his fingertips on her bare skin. "Alistair was a fool," he said against her lips, ending their kiss so he could fill his lungs with air.

"Yes, he was," she agreed with an equally breathless chuckle, "but he is not important right now." She gave him a smoldering glance. "You are."

"No," Loghain shook his head, "_You _are." He slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her to her feet and pulling her flush against him. His hand rested just above the frilly smalls the Empress had provided her with, and he fingered the edge of one of the ruffles absently with wicked intent. "I was the one who botched our first night. And I would make it up to you, if I could."

"Ohhhhh," the Warden smirked, "_could _you?"

"That expression," Loghain said warily as he eyed the glittering in her grey eye and the wickedly sensual curve of her lips, "generally means you have something in mind. Maker help me, I'll do it too, provided it doesn't involve you choking me again. Once was enough for me."

"Nothing so sinister," responded the Warden. "I have something different in mind."

"And what would it be?" Loghain watched the otherwise bold Warden turn her delightful shade of red. He noticed the blush spread up her cheeks and to her ears, but also went down her neck…

The Warden leaned close to his ear, and whispered what it was that she wanted him to do. She did not quite know the words to describe it, but she described the image clearly enough: a woman laying on her back, a man kneeling between her knees, and his lips to her sex. The woman was writhing as the man used his mouth in sinfully delightful ways. It had brought the Empress a great deal of pleasure, from a very base and cruel man, no less. Surely it would be even better, since the giver would be Loghain, who despite his rough edges was a good man at his core.

Loghain's eyes widened when he heard the request, and he gave a small intake of breath at the closing word: "Please." Alistair had been better than he'd originally thought, for surely, that's where the girl got the idea…

"Please, Loghain?"

It was a simple enough act. Loghain knew what to do; he'd done it to Celia on occasion. And he did like it when it she said "please" in that slightly breathless tone… "I think I can handle that," he answered with a smirk of his own. "You will probably be more comfortable on the bed."

To this, the Warden nodded and did as he suggested. She slipped past him, brushing against him as she did so, before she perched herself delicately on the edge of her bed. She crossed her legs rather demurely, drumming her fingertips on her knee as she watched Loghain begin to undress. She laughed in amusement at the surprising speed by which he could shed his clothes. Despite the grey doublet's many buttons, he was out of it faster than he had removed his belt. He kicked off his boots too, leaving him clad in only the black breeches that had been provided to him. Otherwise, he was laid bare to her, and when he was near, she could not resist the urge to run her hands across the muscled planes of his abdomen and chest. Her fingers plucked at the smattering of coarse hair, before he waved her curious digits away.

"Up the bed," he commanded, "and off with the stockings."

"You mean," said the Warden, running a teasing hand along the edge of the ribbon that pinched the stockings shut around her thigh, "you do not like them?"

"They're Orlesian. Of _course, _I don't like them."

"Oh _well _then," she replied, shifting herself up along the bed so that she rested near her pillow. "I happen to like them." She gave a squawk of protest when Loghain pulled the ribbons apart and hooked his fingers below the edge of the delicate fabric. "No! I _liked _them."

"I will buy you Fereldan ones."

"This is absurd," the Warden covered her face with her forearms, grumbling as she felt the air of her room lick across her exposed skin. As Loghain removed the other stocking, she curled her toes into the fabric, playing tug of war with him until he mercilessly pinched the arch of her foot and she gave an embarrassing cry of surprise. She was about to rear up and slap at his offending hand when she felt lips kissing at her knee, and she risked a look from beneath her arms. Loghain's dark head was slowly coming towards her, his lips laying little kisses along her skin as he encroached.

His breath tickled her skin, and the Warden squirmed and rolled to her side away from the onslaught along her tender flesh. "Tickles," she said between her little gasps for air, but Loghain was relentless to her protests, and despite the flailing and squirming, his lips were at her neck and his hands were in her hair. His hands slithered around her, drawing her close against his chest as he cupped hers. Her legs were rubbing against each other as he fondled and rolled her white flesh, the swell of her rear rubbing against his arousal in dubiously innocent ways. He slowly let one hand trail down her ribs and over the muscles of her stomach, tickling the pale skin there, before he slipped past the barrier of her ridiculously frilly knickers. She gave a sound of appreciation, a deep, sighing, "_Ohhhhh,_" as he found _that _spot between her legs that women liked so much. Loghain was surprised to find that one of her hand linked itself atop his, moving his fingers at the pressure and pace that she liked.

The Warden found that he took to her silent instruction _very _well. He was no master, but he played her skillfully enough for her body to sing, and when she thought she could stand no more, he stopped. His strokes became lazy, distant, and then disappeared entirely as he moved his hand to her hip. His fingers drummed against her smalls, and he seemed to be making a point: _take them off. _

"Oh, very well." The Warden shifted onto her back, jostling Loghain from his position. She lifted her legs in the air and, like a cat playing with a ball of yarn, shimmied out of her smalls. She smirked when she heard Loghain's appreciative rumble, though she was not quite sure if it came from the notion that she was now completely bare before him, or that the Orlesian finery was now strewn across the floor, to be trampled underfoot where it belonged.

"Now," Loghain drew out the word, kissing her temple as he did so, "what was it you'd like me to do again?"

The Warden blushed, though it was less intense than the first. "Put that impudent mouth of yours to work."

"Oh, _ho,_" he chuckled, the sound passing through his body to hers in a tremor of tiny vibrations, "_impudent _mouth is it? I shall have to make amends."

The Warden arched her back and ran both her hands down her stomach. "Then make amends!"

Loghain needed no further prodding or convincing. He placed his hands between her thighs, drawing them apart so that he had a space to lie. He crawled over her, settling between her legs, and hooked one long thigh over his shoulder. He crouched on the mattress in front of her, settling himself into a comfortable position. There was not enough space to lay flush on his belly, but he managed to fit if he rested on his side. With one white thigh on his shoulder, and the other providing a cushion for his neck, he set upon her.

With a half-strangled _"Eeeeeep!" _at the sensation, the Warden pushed against Loghain's shoulder, foot finding purchase against the curve of his neck, and forced herself up the remainder of the bed. It had not been what she was expecting. The pillow pushed to her side as she rested her back against the headboard, her hands covering her mouth in mortification. "I'm," she said from behind them, her voice muffled by her fingers, "I am so sorry! Oh, this is embarrassing. It took me by surp - "

With an eyebrow raised between irritation and amusement, and a hard look that said, "Shut up, girl," Loghain gripped her calf and pulled her bodily back down the bed towards him. He settled her leg over his shoulder again, but this time he locked his hand around it to keep it still. He ignored her coquettish squeaks of surprise each time he ran his tongue over the bud at the apex of her thighs. Slowly, her little squeaks turned into small moans. The shrill, "Loghain!" turned into a much softer, quieter, "_Loghain._" And then the sounds stopped coming entirely as both his world and hers turned into a chorus of her sighs. Unlike their first time with her heavy, labored breathing and taunting words, this time the Warden was quiet in her lust and Loghain's ears strained to catch the different meanings in all her strangled little exhales.

He flicked his eyes up to look at her, to gauge her reaction, and he liked what he saw. She had her head tilted away, but he could see the profile of her features. Her eyes were half-lidded, and she had one hand pressed to her mouth, the backs of her fingers curled as her lips puckered around a knuckle. After a few more strokes of his tongue, the hand fell away and she gave a shaky puff of breath, her eyes widening as release rushed over her.

Her hands tangled in his hair, drawing him away from her. "No more," she said, squirming away from a tongue that was flicking at her mercilessly, "Not…so soon. No…" She struggled to sit up, away from the teasing and taunting. She nudged his persistent face away with her knees.

Loghain let her slip away and settled himself upright. He watched her rearrange herself at the top of the bed, her legs drawn up beside her as she reclined on a forearm against the mattress. Around the edges of her forehead her hair was wet with sweat, and she was staring at him with an alarmingly disarming smile. She extended her hand out to him, waving with her fingers for him to come closer. He did so with some trepidation, picking his way across the mussed sheets with careful placement of his hands and knees.

He settled beside her, leveraging his weight against her forearm so that she fell against his side. "A satisfactory use of my tongue?" he asked rather drolly to the Warden's ears.

She affirmed his prowess with a nod of her head. "Yes. This is a very good means of making you contrite for your surliness." Her eye glittered with mirth.

"Good thing for you that I'm set in my ways. I won't be sorry for long."

"Lucky for me indeed," she ran a hand down his chest. "Now…" Her eyes followed the path of her hand as it walked its way down his stomach to linger at the edge of his breeches. Even with the dark color of his pants and the dim light of the candles, his arousal was evident. "Do I get to do the same to you?"

Loghain said nothing, just raised an eyebrow at the question.

"Well?" the Warden's fingers were slowly marching down the muscles of his stomach.

"If you wish," he replied warily, and the Warden merely smiled.

"There's that reluctant tone again," chided the Warden quietly, fingers working their way below the edge of his smalls to skirt against his thick curls. "If you do not 'wish,' then just say so. I just thought I might," her voice was low enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck, "assess the state of your farming tools."

Loghain's eyes widened at the words and he couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him. "Oh, Maker's breath," he shook his head and began to push at the edge of his pants, "this cannot end well."

"I can make you _end _well."

He threw an arm over his eyes.

The Warden only chuckled at his response and turned her full attention to removing what remained of Loghain's clothing. Since he had so dutifully pushed his trousers down below his hips, it was an easy matter of slipping them down his legs, along with his smalls. Settled on her knees by his side and pushing her hair behind her ears, she gazed on the expanse of man that was Loghain…and was pleased. She reached out a finger and traced his crown, and was rewarded with a low groan. Her finger was replaced by her hand, and then her hand was replaced by her mouth as she touched, explored, and tasted him. He was salty, tasting faintly of sweat and whatever soap he'd bathed with before the masquerade. It was not altogether unpleasant, and the sounds she was forcing him to make were more than worth any discomfort in her neck or lips.

It made her feel very powerful, to have Loghain so enthralled at the movement of her lips and fingertips. He had given up hiding his face, and instead was looking at her with rapt fascination as she lowered her lips along his length and then up again. His fingers were plucking at the sheets, and as he had learned what pleased her by ear, so too did she do the same. Loghain was vocal in what he enjoyed: rough on the down stroke, and light on the return upwards. Doing this several times in succession caused his hips to buck reflexively, which made the Warden smirk and wink at him (and to this he would try and cover his eyes again and fail. He could never hide for long, for always was he drawn to the mesmerizing sight of the Warden's mouth and his own engorged flesh).

It was not long before the Warden was roused out of her rhythm by a low growl from Loghain and the presence of his fingers tugging sharply at her hair.

"Stop!" Loghain pulled at her head, dragging her lips and inviting mouth away from him. "Stop…you have to stop if you want…"

The Warden looked up, her eyebrow raised in devious delight at her question. "If I want what?" She shook her head free of his hands.

"If you want _me,_" he replied quietly, shifting away from her. "I can't last long if you do that. Though if that's all you want to do, by all means."

"No," she laid a hand upon his stomach, "it isn't."

Loghain tried to say something, but found himself at a loss for words at the sight of the Warden straddling him. It was different from their first night together. She was not the cold, icy wind of wrath, scouring him of skin and soul for his mistakes. She was a gentle breeze along a farmer's sweat beaten brow. Her fingers wrapped tenderly around him as she guided him into position, slipping away to be replaced by the heat of her core. Her hands found their place on his chest, demurely atop his heart, as she lowered herself down carefully. Her chest heaved and her eyes fluttered shut as she sheathed him to the hilt, her lips pursing as pain was chased away by pleasure, and when she was finally settled, she opened her eyes.

The Warden and Loghain stared at one another, transfixed on the other's face. Loghain's expression was one of surprise and wonder, and there was a tenderness in his features that was awoken by the Warden's obvious youth and beauty. The Warden wore a bolder expression, not wanton, but daring. In the shake of her curls and the jut of her breasts, she challenged Loghain, asked him to bring his age and experience to the fight, where her youth and energy could sustain them. There was also a gentleness in her features too, a vulnerability made visible by the openness of her youth and inexperience. One day she would lose both of these things, but for now, she trusted Loghain enough to reveal these secrets to him.

And Loghain honored that trust. He placed his hands on her hips and licked his lips, nodding his head at her. He had stilled himself, resisted the urge to buck for the sake of her comfort, but when she began to rise and fall upon him like the tides of the Waking Sea, he couldn't help but meet her. She leaned forward to kiss him, and he swept his tongue across hers before she darted away again. Her hips rocked against him in a variety of angles, hunting for an elusive pleasure, seeking always a mutual satisfaction from their joining. Loghain slipped his sword arm from her hips to the crux of their union, twisting his fingers about until they gave her what she needed. She let her head fall back, but never did she close her eyes. They went either to the ceiling or to Loghain's, and he did his best to match her stare for stare.

"I - " said the Warden breathlessly, but Loghain shook his head.

"Now is not the time," he said before giving into a loud groan brought on by the sharp rolling of the Warden's hips. "Oh, Maker," he gasped, "it won't be long for me if you keep doing that." He felt the Warden pick up her pace, doing exactly what it was he feared she would do, and he rubbed frantically at her sex, trying to bring her as close as she was bringing him. His fingers and wrist ached, but it worked, for it was not long before he felt the Warden's knees squeezing his sides and her murmured litany of, _"_Loghain, Loghain, _Loghain._" before she tightened around him with the silken flex of muscles and an exhale of warm air.

Loghain was only a few steps behind her, urging her on to the end of her completion so he could begin his. When he found it, when he abandoned his long practiced control, when he spilled himself into her, this time it was _her _name on his lips. It was only a whisper, no louder than the breath he might draw when sleeping, but it was there, and she heard it, and she smiled.

With trembling legs she pulled herself off him, settling bonelessly into his arms. She rested her hands under her chin and used his shoulder for a pillow, since he was using hers. "Did you know," she said quietly, looking up into his drowsy face, "that I had never done that with anyone before you?"

"Really, now?" asked Loghain, only half-aware of the information he was being told. The warmth in his groin had spread throughout his body, and he was becoming blissfully tired. He dropped a drowsy kiss to the top of her head. "Then I am doubly damned."

"Maybe."

"But better than the Princeling."

She gave only a small chuckle before running her foot along his leg. "Most definitely."

Loghain's last response was a content grumbling before he fell into sleep. The Warden joined him a short time after, once her own contentment had settled.

She awoke early in the morning, when the sun was just coming through the window. He was on the verge of waking, his body stiff from the night's earlier activities. He was stiff in other ways too, which her greedy fingers soon discovered. Loghain was jostled into consciousness by the dreamy sensation of smooth thighs enveloping his hips, and the sudden dive he took into her warm heat. The Warden rode him in the smoky morning sunlight, and Loghain watched the dust motes crown her golden curls as the faint light framed her body. No words passed between them. No words had to. His fingers said what his words could not, as they rubbed her to her completion as she rocked him to his.

She settled beside him again, drowsy once more from their love making. She tangled her legs possessively with his and pillowed her head against the crook of his arm. Her sleep came first, and Loghain's shortly after, and together, they dreamed quiet, gentle dreams well into the morning.

* * *

_And there we have it. The masquerade, the Glorious Reunion, and the end of the Orlesian story arc. _

_I, again, debated if splitting this chapter up would be the right thing to do. But it seems that whenever I chop chapters in half, they tend to grow and grow. Hopefully this wasn't too much to read in one sitting? _

_Love and thanks go out to the readers - especially those of you who have been consistently dropping me messages and reviews to let me know what you think. The storyline may be set, but you shape it more than you know._

_Next up...the journey to Weisshaupt! _


	43. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33 **

It was noon when the Wardens awoke. Loghain was the first to stir, startled into consciousness by the press of warm flesh against his side. A pair of legs was tangled with his, and there was an arm draped across his chest, a well-muscled, pale arm that bore scars. Breasts brushed against his ribs, tickling his skin as they rose and fell with steady breathing. He opened his eyes and dared a glance at his partner, unsure of his good fate. Loghain had dreamed of this before, though not often, and as before, he expected the blonde curls and rosy cheeks to evaporate into the air. But the Warden did not disappear. She rested comfortably in the circle of his arms and seemed quite content to stay there. Loghain risked smoothing away the curls from her forehead, and was rewarded with the opening of a grey eye and a very wide smile.

"Good morning," said the Warden with a wink of her good eye, which was somewhat dull and unfocused from sleep. Her quartz eye, however, was bright in the afternoon light.

"I think it may be afternoon," Loghain replied with a quick glance to the window. The sun filtering through it was quite strong.

The Warden pulled her arm towards her, letting her fingers drag against the skin of Loghain's chest as she did so. "Not late enough then." She sighed and stretched, her toes rubbing against Loghain's ankles as she did so. Several joints cracked and groaned. "I am an old woman," she said at a rather loud pop from an elbow. "Very old."

Loghain raised an eyebrow to that. "And you plan to stay in bed the entire day as an old woman would?"

She gave a womanly sound of contentment and nestled up the bed towards him. She dropped a light kiss on his lips and then trailed her lips down to his chin. "Could I convince an old man to stay with me?" Her eye was glittering with mirth and desire.

Loghain felt himself stiffening in response to the Warden's proximity. The glide of her skin on his and the press of her breasts was curiously intoxicating; an alien sensation that he hadn't felt since the last time he had awoken beside Celia. The idea of the Warden naked, vulnerable, and willing beside him in bed was quickening his desire in a very uncivilized way. Besides the natural, animalistic need to couple with her, he also felt protective instinct bloom in his chest. He wanted to cover her nakedness with his so as to better shield her.

"You," she chuckled, "haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?"

"Ah," Loghain shook his head, realizing that she must have been talking to him for several moments while he was considering his options. "No. My mind was elsewhere."

"Hopefully," she smirked, "it was somewhere with me. As I was trying to tell you, the Wardens should have absolutely _no _need of me today." The Warden's hand trailed down the plane of his body, fingers skirting across the muscles of his stomach and plucking gently at the coarse hair that grew thicker the further south it went, "And I have earned _my_ rest. As you," her fingertips were drawing tiny patterns along one hip, "have earned _yours._"

Guilt slowly began to mingle with Loghain's desire. It sent icy tendrils of shame through his blood. There was probably something incredibly wrong and perverse in associating with a woman half his age, no less his commander, despite how consensual it was. Not only was he _not _a particularly good sort of long term lover to have, he would only have a scant handful of years to live, and it was cruel to both of them to pursue this relationship to its end. He peered at her face, blue eyes widening as he tried to think of an excuse that wouldn't offend or hurt his commander.

But the Warden was clever, and she had observed Loghain's behavior over the course of their time together, and she knew exactly what was on his mind. He looked as he did at the start of the previous night, as well as that night so many months ago that had caused them so much trouble. "You are thinking too hard again," she chided gently. She moved her hand to Loghain's chin and took it firmly between her thumb and forefinger. "Thinking too hard about things that I don't like." She watched his eyes narrow and become guarded, and let out a soft chuckle. "I have a solution. I think that you should be the pretty one, and that I should be the thinking one. That way, neither of us will get hurt."

Her comment took Loghain by surprise and he laughed, by the Maker, did he laugh. It rumbled out of his chest like the slow and steady fall of rocks down a cliff face. He closed his eyes and shook his head again. "Aurora…"

"I mean it, Loghain," she said quietly. "Allow me to be the one who worries about this."

"If it were that easy, I'd let you have all the worry," he smiled ruefully and quickly opened an eye to see the Warden's face a few inches from his, "but it is not, unfortunately. I am too old to change, and so the burden to do so must rest on you."

"I am too young," she countered with a shake of her blonde curls, "to be tempered by your wisdom and age. I will not change either."

"Then we are at an impasse."

"So we are." The Warden let a few moments pass between them before she spoke again. "I can order you not to worry, if that might help."

"It does not work." He chuckled again. "I've tried and failed with that tactic many times." At seeing the Warden's lips purse in frustration, he reached up and gently tugged her forward so that she was resting against his chest. The stiff peaks of her nipples poked at his skin and her hands came up to cradle either side of his face as she rested on her stomach, sprawled half way atop him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and with his free hand, guided the Warden's palm to his lips. "You're a pretty girl, Aurora. I am still wondering over my luck."

Such words pleased the Warden, since a large smile spread over her features. She shut both her eyes and leaned forward to embrace him in a dreamy kiss. The long, slow pull of lips was tender, though hesitant at first. When it was done, the Warden looked at Loghain with some expectation. "Will you always be reluctant?" she asked him, "or do you think that you will outgrow your shyness one day?"

"_Shyness_?" Loghain scoffed at the notion. "Hardly worth my time or yours to be considering that. If you're asking me if I'll ever get _used_ to the idea of you in my bed, then yes, I probably will." He shot her a smirk at her look of delight, noting the way her injured eye closed completely when she smiled now, "As much as one can get used to someone who snores and takes up all the room on the bed."

"There you go, Loghain," the Warden _tsked_, "wagging your impudent tongue. You will have to make amends for these blasphemous words you say!"

"Maker strike me down if I'm lying."

The Warden reared up and dug her fingertips into his sides, twisting and wiggling them against him to try and elicit laughter. She sighed at Loghain's amused expression, his thick eyebrows raised high as he looked at her from over the curve of his nose. "I am not the Maker, apparently."

"Apparently not," he agreed. "While I have no doubt you can strike me down, it would appear that I am saved from your wrath, if only momentarily." Against his better judgment he snuck a quick glance down her body, unable to stop the drag of his eyes down the swells of her naked breasts to the thatch of curls between her legs. She had one leg tucked under her, and the other was hanging off the bed. The only armor between them was the room's warm air.

"I _should_ punish you. To think," She mercilessly ripped the sheet from his body, "you accuse _me _of stealing all the bed! Oh," she was grinning then as she stared at his body, "and good afternoon."

She was already stretching out a hand when Loghain intercepted it. "While I might be persuaded in any other place to let you have your way," Loghain quickly threaded his fingers though hers, halting their path to the arousal that she had stoked, "I find myself unable to be so while we rest in Orlais."

The Warden's eyes narrowed. "I like to think of my bedroom as belonging to neither country nor organization. This bed is mine; the only person who holds dominion in it is me."

Loghain chuckled at the notion, and moved to sit up against the headboard, using his elbows to pull himself further up on the bed. He looked at the Warden, who was staring at him with her sternest of gazes. "I currently possess more of the bed than you do. I could claim dominion, if I wanted." He had indeed commandeered most of the bed, leaving the Warden only a few inches of room to rest on her side during the night. He gave a groan of surprise as the Warden clambered atop him.

"Who holds dominion now?" she asked, leaning down to create a veil of hair between their faces and the outside world.

"You do, but I have the better end of the bargain." His hands came up to grasp at her hips (and vowed that the hips were where they would stay) and his eyes followed the line of her body up from the heat at the juncture of her thighs, over the planes of her stomach, between the swells of her breasts, up her neck, until finally they came to rest on the curious combination of eye and orb staring down at him.

She smiled at him and placed a kiss on his nose. "And I hope you never forget it." She dropped another kiss to his lips, fluttering them against his in a gentle fashion. She had just coaxed Loghain's lips apart with her tongue when they were rudely interrupted by noise from the outside world.

"Hey!" A big booming knock sounded on the other side of the door. "Fereldans! How're you doing in there?"

"Go away, Flavius," called the Warden to the blond brute, raising her head and scowling at the door, "I was sleeping and I wish to be so once more."

"You don't sound all that tired!"

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door. "Little peach," said Serge against the wood, "While normally I would not interrupt in such matters, I have a missive from the Empress."

"The damnable Empress," muttered Loghain.

"What does it say, Serge?" asked the Warden, clambering out of bed in a naked tussle of limbs. She pattered across her room, gathering articles of clothing from her chest and trunk to make herself more presentable. She nudged the remains of her gown and undergarments out of view of the door, kicking them across the floor to the bed. One of her stocks ended up being flung over Dane's head, but he was fast asleep and took no notice.

"It is sealed."

The Warden sighed. "One moment." She rolled herself into her breast band, pulled on a pair of smalls, and then shimmied into her breeches and a tunic. She saw Loghain pointing at the armor stand in the corner and mouthing to her, "Put it on!" but she frowned and shook her head. Pulling on socks and then her boots, running her fingers through her sleep tangled hair, and rubbing her cheeks and eyes to give the illusion of flushed sleep, she opened the door.

Flavius and Serge were standing on the opposite side. Flavius took up all available space in the corridor, sucking in all the light and air that could be found there. He was ducking down so that his head didn't touch the ceiling. Serge was standing in front of him, looking very sharp in a black robe with deep brown leather accents. The robe had red embroidery along the sleeves and neck, bringing out the red in the leather.

Serge handed the Warden the missive, which she took with a sigh. She pulled apart the seal and let her eyes skim over the page:

_Lady Grey, _

_I could tell that you had the most wonderful time last night. I hope that the joy extended well into your time away from the party, and that you are well rested for the journey ahead. I know you intend to travel to Weisshaupt, and I will not keep you in Orlais for too much longer, since I am told that the journey there is treacherous this time of year. I would see you return safe and sound to Ferelden. _

_I have taken the liberty of arranging your supplies. In two days' time, you should seek out Ethan Deville in the Grey Warden compound. He will have everything you need. _

_I will be unable to send you off personally, for I have many matters to attend to in the next several days, but I wish you the safest of journeys. When you return to Ferelden, make sure you stop in Val Royeaux so that I may see you home personally. _

_May the Maker guide and bless you, _

_Celene I, Empress of Orlais_

Celene's handwriting was as lavish as she was, and it danced across the page in a most elegant script: precise, neat, flourished, and taking up every available space on the small surface of the paper. She did not leave room for tampering or forgery, though her style of doing so was much more subtle than the Warden's use of bold, black lines in blank spaces.

"I need to see Ethan Deville," said the Warden. She flicked her eyes up to Serge's. "In two days. He will apparently have all the supplies I will need for the journey to Weisshaupt."

"You will need a guide as well." Serge puckered his lips in thought. "When do you intend to leave?"

"I suppose in three days. If it will take two days for us to get supplies, I would rather spend an additional day packing and finishing preparations than setting off immediately." The Warden folded Celene's letter once more. "What makes the journey to Weisshaupt so treacherous?"

"Ah," Serge chuckled. "Its - "

"The winds from the sea!" Flavius ducked his head over Serge's shoulder. "Something in the air makes the Darkspawn go mad. They come out of their holes and prowl the roads this time of year."

"In truth?" the Warden asked Serge.

The blood mage nodded. "Flavius has the right of it. However, we do not know exactly _what _causes the Darkspawn to come out, only that they do."

"Wind."

"There is _always _wind in the Anderfels," responded Serge dryly to Flavius's insistence. "What makes this wind so different?"

Flavius had no answer to that.

"I take it this is not a time of year when the merchants are out on the roads?" The Warden looked between the two men standing in her door way.

"If you need to buy provisions, it will not be from traveling merchants, yes. It will have to be from a town that you come across…and you will not find many of them along the main roads, unfortunately," explained Serge.

"Then I hope Ethan can provide us with what we need. I would hate - "

"Fereldan," interrupted Flavius, pointing in Dane's direction, "what's your dog wearing on his head?"

The Warden turned over her shoulder to take a look at Dane, who had one of her lacy Orlesian stockings draped over his head. "A stocking," she replied in a serious tone of voice, turning to look at Flavius. "Its twin is on the other side of the room. Along with my undergarments, and my dress."

"And the rest of my clothes," called Loghain from inside the room. He had his elbow pillowed behind his head, and was indeed observing the pile of clothing that the Warden had created.

"Alaric," the Warden said sweetly to the Tevinter barbarian, "tells me you go to a washer woman's every day to have your smalls mended. I have so much to do today, perhaps you will take ours with you when you go?"

Dane awoke to the roaring of laughter in the hallway.

8-8-8

Two days later, Loghain, Dane, and the Warden were standing outside of Ethan Deville's shop laden with supplies for their journey to Weisshaupt. The Empress had spared no expense, and in addition to the necessary rations and skins of water she had provided them, she had also given them thick, fur cloaks, as well as furs in which they could wrap their extremities for further protection.

"Riordan said that the Grey Wardens of the Anderfels were shaped by the winters, and the forest. From what the Empress has given us," the Warden shifted the bundle of supplies and clothes in her arms, "it looks like we may be in for a cold ride."

"I had not realized the seasons had changed," Loghain mused. "It is hard to believe I've been away from Ferelden for so long."

"You and I both."

"I hope to never leave her again."

Loghain and the Warden shared a moment of homesickness before making their way back to their rooms. Once they sorted through their respective furs and pouches, taking a full stock of the inventory, they made their way to the stables, where they were greeted by Andraste, Serge, and Vidar.

Andraste was reclining casually against the gate to the stalls. Serge was standing a few feet away, his nose wrinkled at the smell of the horses. Vidar was in the stables, the only sign of his presence being his characteristic voice. He was humming a low tune as he was working on grooming a horse.

"Ah, there you two are," said Andraste as they approached. "I was hoping you would come here."

"Good morning to you," said the Warden with a nod of her head, "and to you, Serge."

"And you, little peach," replied Serge with a smile.

Loghain frowned at Andraste, who was standing in his way. "What did you want to see us about?"

"You are," Andraste took a smell step to the left and opened the stable gate for Loghain, "heading to Weisshaupt on the morrow, yes?"

"With the sunrise." The Warden followed Loghain through the gate, Dane at her heels.

Andraste chuckled and rested her elbows against the fence that separated the stables from the street. "You will want a guide."

"We have maps," the Warden shot Andraste a smile over her shoulder, her eye patch leading the movement of her face. "We will be fine."

"A map is no match for a skilled guide." Serge settled himself next to Andraste. "Many of the roads on that map may be closed because of the weather. Or darkspawn. Or both."

"What they're really trying to say," said a very bored Vidar from one of the stalls, "is that I'm being sent to Weisshaupt, and they want you to come with _me._"

"Vidar has made the journey many times before," explained Andraste, "and is experienced with the terrain this time of year. If you want to get to Weisshaupt as quickly as possible, I suggest you go with him."

"The two of them would slow me down considerably," drawled the tracker, the scrape of his brush against the horse's flank drowning out the majority of Andraste's protests. "The old man's a cripple, and the _Commander _can't go two feet without running into trouble."

The Warden did not relish the idea of traveling with Vidar, not after what she'd been through. However, in weighing the two options, traveling with Vidar far out-weighed the alternative. The Warden wanted to get back to Ferelden quickly. She didn't want to dither about the trails to Weisshaupt, especially if the roads were going to be unsafe. Looking at Loghain, she could see that he was having the same sort of internal struggle. He was trying to reconcile extra time abroad with extra time in Vidar's company.

"What do you think, Loghain?" whispered the Warden, angling her face towards his ear. "Time off our journey for time with him?"

"I am loathe to say yes," he responded quietly. "But I am also loathe to say no. I trust the Empress's maps about as much as I trust him. He could lead us into any number of traps."

"It is a sad day," called Andraste, "when Grey Wardens cannot trust each other. Look, Serge, how they stare at one another!"

"I suspect there is a good reason for the mistrust," Serge drummed his fingers against his cheek. "Are you afraid that Vidar will not take you there safely?"

"Can't see _why _they'd think that," Vidar said, "I _did _save the Commander's life."

Both the Fereldan Wardens pursed their lips. It was true. Vidar _had _saved the Warden's life, and had healed her too. If Vidar's attitude was anything to go by, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of saving the Warden, only to then lead her into the hands of darkspawn.

"That is true," admitted the Warden. "And I would hate to seem ungrateful."

"Then it is settled!" Andraste clapped her hands together. "You will travel to Weisshaupt together tomorrow."

Loghain was not so easily satisfied. "And the return trip? Is _he_ coming back with us?"

"Ha," brayed the tracker, "he caught you out, _leader. _ No, Fereldan, I won't be coming back this way. You'll have to use those precious maps of yours if you want to walk back to Val Royeaux."

"I am sure," the Warden put her hand on Loghain's arm, "that we can find other Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt who will take us back this way."

Loghain only exhaled sharply and moved to the stall where Gharin was waiting. As the Warden carried on a conversation between Vidar, Andraste, and Serge, prompting them for information about the journey and Weisshaupt, Loghain busied himself to the needless task of grooming his war horse. He had visited Gharin at least twice every week since they had first arrived in Orlais, and each time he came he was still surprised at the level of care he received. Normally, Loghain would groom Gharin to establish a bond with him, yet the grooming was unnecessary. The war horse's dark coat was glistening with only a few swipes of the coarse brush. Taking a look into the next stall, it appeared the Warden's little palfrey was in the same condition.

The clattering of tools and wood against wood silenced the conversation, and Vidar emerged from one of the stalls. He stretched his arms over his head, leathers silent at the move. He leaned this way then that, until he felt satisfied that his back had been stretched. "If you want to leave at dawn," he said to the Warden, "you need to be here _before _dawn."

"I gathered as much," she responded dryly, crossing her arms in front of her and cocking out a hip.

"And don't wear your furs," he continued as he sauntered to the gate, shooing Andraste away with an imperious wave of his hand. "You don't need them yet."

The Warden didn't get a chance to ask him anymore questions, because Vidar was already loping away to one of the gates. Dane whined at her side, and she placed a hand on his hand. "I know, Dane," she said, "I do not like it either. We do what we have to." She sent Loghain a smile, her second having just appeared from tending to Gharin.

"Brake's in fine shape," he said. "Looks fit enough to travel."

"Wardens," Serge waved his hands, "I have a suggestion about the return trip."

"I am all ears, Serge."

"If the road to Weisshaupt is too rough," Serge looked at both Wardens as they approached, "you may want to consider taking a ship from Minrathous back to Ferelden or the Free Marches. It will be expensive, and it likely will not be any quicker, but it may be more convenient."

Loghain shook his head. "No more ships. Not if we can avoid it."

Andraste raised an eyebrow at the vehemence of his statement, and Serge chuckled at the Warden's explanation: "He gets seasick."

"My only concern," and the Warden took a deep breath after she said this, "would be the likelihood of coming into contact with the Qunari. Seheron and Par Vollen are going to be a problem until we pass Rivain, yes? We can at least sense darkspawn. The only notice we'll have of the Qunari are their cannons."

Serge merely smiled. "You might be surprised."

"I suppose we might. I would still rather not risk it. I don't like the idea of dying at sea."

"Ferelden has lost enough of its heroes that way," added Loghain quietly and with a finality that brought all further attempts of suggesting sea travel to a halt.

Their duties at the stable done, the Wardens spent the rest of the day packing and buying extra supplies or novelties they might want on the road ahead. The Warden bought sticky toffee candies, of which Dane ate nearly half before the Warden realized they'd gone missing. Loghain had then bought her another satchel full, and was rewarded later that night for his thoughtfulness. When he had come into her room after his bath, he found the Warden stripped to her skin and in a most amorous and grateful mood. She enticed him with her swaying hips and pretty little nipples to the bed, where she then clambered atop him, and hand fed him three of the little chewy things before he'd decided that the honey color of her curls was all the sweetness he needed. They made love twice on the Warden's bed before Loghain thought it best for them to sleep. He was coaxed into it a third time, and though he was tired when the Warden woke him in the morning, it had been well worth it. They both knew they would likely not get the opportunity for such a luxury for quite some time. If ever again.

After their ablutions, they helped each other into their armor, tightening laces and buckles to a sturdy, but comfortable traveling tightness. The Warden braided her hair as Loghain fastened her greaves into place, and then braided his hair as he worked on his gauntlets. Shouldering their respective saddlebags, locking their rooms behind them, and placing the keys on the counter in the front room, the Wardens and Dane made their way to the stables.

Vidar was waiting for them, already seated astride a tawny palfrey with a white mane and tail. He was dressed in light leather armor, and had his bow and quiver strapped to his back. His shaggy brown hair was kept out of his eyes by a thick leather headband, which pressed his brows down into a mean looking scowl (though with Vidar, it was hard to tell if it was the headband's fault, or just his natural facial expression). His lip curled when he saw them approach, but he said nothing to them as they passed by him and began to prepare their horses for departure. His silence continued as he led them through the quiet streets of Val Royeaux and to the grand gate that was the city's exit.

The moon was still out, as were a few pale stars, as they left Val Royeaux, the Grey Warden Compound, and Empress Celene behind them. They rode north along the trade road, racing the red sunrise and the twist of the shadows it cast. On the first day they stopped twice: once to take their lunch and rest the horses, and then again to make camp for the evening. Vidar never let them camp for long, setting a grueling pace that the two Fereldan Wardens weren't used to in quite some time. It had been months since they'd last had to sleep on the ground, though this time around they did have tents. They set up two of the light, canvas structures at most, rotating who slept in each tent depending on the watch cycle.

The closer they came to the Anderfels, the colder and fouler the wind became. When they departed from the Imperial Highway at Churneau, there was a smattering of frost on the ground one morning when they woke up, and then more frost another morning, but after passing upwards through Perendale, they were met with rain. It fell in sheets upon them, soaking through armor, padding, and clothing and leaving the four travelers cold and shivering as they pressed forward, ever forward.

Vidar kept them as close to the Hunterhorn Mountains as he could, keeping them in their shadow for reasons only he knew. The Warden knew that Kal-Sharok was somewhere nearby, though without knowing the landmarks, she would not be able to guess where the stone doors to the vast, forgotten city were. Pointing to the distant branch of mountains, Vidar informed them that Weisshaupt was at the very end of the mountain range, and settled on a rise above a forest. He explained that they were abandoning this branch of the Hunterhorns, and were going to cut straight across to the next branch.

The Wardens were surprised when Vidar led them up a small, craggy rise only a few miles north and dismounted. They watched awestruck as their tracker began to set up camp.

"And what are we stopping for?" asked Loghain.

Vidar shot him an amused look from where he was kneeling on the ground. "Go ahead and continue if you like, Fereldan."

Loghain narrowed his eyes.

"You have never stopped before the sun has set," the Warden reasoned, "why are you stopping now at nearly the height of the afternoon?"

With an irritated sigh, Vidar stood and beckoned for the two Wardens to follow him. "Dismount," he ordered as he walked to the edge of the rise. The wind sent his hair flying every which way, and he raised a hand to his face to keep it from out of his eyes.

Loghain and the Warden reluctantly dismounted, tethering their horses to the stake that Vidar had casually stomped into the ground. They, along with Dane, came to join him on the edge of the cliff.

The Warden's breath caught in her throat in surprise, and Loghain gave only a grim grunt of understanding. Below them, stretching out for miles in every direction, was nothing. The land was a grey, empty mass. There were no plants, no animals, no darkspawn, no settlements…there was only the wind, and it whistled bitterly over the dead plain.

"How far does this extend, Vidar?" asked the Warden, placing a hand on the tracker's elbow.

"Far enough," he replied. "It will be the only patch of it you'll see on this side of the mountains since Weisshaupt."

"Does this have something to do with Kal-Sharok?" Loghain licked his lips in thought. "I know that it suffered greatly from Darkspawn attacks."

"Does it matter where it came from?" Vidar's laugh was bitter like the wind. "This is the quickest way to Weisshaupt. Beyond the taint, there's a path into the Hunterhorns that winds around the mountains to the fortress. Much quicker than navigating through the forest."

"Aren't we in danger," Loghain's eyes were scanning the still plain, "of encountering darkspawn? This land looks tainted."

"The taint is dead," Vidar said. "Weisshaupt burns this place every five years to make sure of that. As for the darkspawn, they're there." He gave Loghain a wicked smile. "Feel them."

Loghain had been aware of the darkspawn since they'd first stepped foot into the borders of the country. They had seemed distant and faraway, and still felt distant and faraway.

The Warden put a hand over her eyes and scanned the horizon, and Vidar laughed at the futility of her action. "Do you think they'll come for us?" she asked seriously.

"Not with your stink, no." Vidar was already turning back to the horses. "We'll camp on this ridge for the evening, and then pick up again in the morning. Trust me, you don't want to be caught on that land in the middle of the night."

"Darkspawn?" Loghain raised an eyebrow.

Vidar laughed. "Holes."

The Wardens set about preparing their camp for the rest of the afternoon, using what hours of daylight there would be to set up an appropriate perimeter as well as their tents. Vidar said he'd take the middle shift, since that was when there was going to be the greatest threat of attack. Loghain volunteered to take the first shift, and so the Warden was left with the last. After sharing a meager dinner of dried pork and apricots, Vidar and the Warden settled down to sleep, while Loghain strolled around the camp with Dane at his side. They had put out the small fire they had crafted from scraps of paper and cloth they had brought, and all the light Loghain had to see with were the stars.

Vidar did not need to be woken for his watch. He was already awake by the time Loghain approached the flap of his tent. He had been propped on his side, staring out of the open flat at the Warden's tent. Feeling Loghain's boot gently nudge the tent's edge, he rose and took Loghain's place. Loghain was kept awake by the sounds of grunting and screeching from the plains below, just as the Warden was woken up by it.

Crawling out of her tent, she came to stand beside Vidar, who was staring out at the vast, darkened plain. Every bitter whip of the wind against her cheeks brought the stench of the darkspawn with it. "How many do you think are down there?" she asked the tracker.

"Thousands," he replied. "Millions."

"Be serious," she scolded.

"I am."

"Then why do they seem so distant?" the Warden frowned.

"Because they are," he shrugged, his leathers groaning. "Most of them are underground. The grunting you're hearing is coming from a half a day's journey away. The wind lies."

"How long will it take for us to be out of the wastes?"

"If we ride till the horses are exhausted? A day or so. Longer if the old man can't keep up." Vidar turned to look at her. "You worried we can't make it out?"

She nodded.

Vidar pulled an arrow from out of his quiver. He placed the tip of it against the Warden's neck. "Don't worry, _Commander_," he said quietly, leaning in close to her. "If things go badly, this one is for you." Though his tone was snide, his eyes were grim.

The Warden's eye widened in surprise, and it took her a few moments to realize what Vidar meant. He would not let her be taken alive by the darkspawn. Vidar _understood. _ "Thank you," she breathed.

Vidar only nodded and put the arrow back in his quiver, stepping away from the Warden to turn back to the vast plain before them. The Warden stood close to his side, her cloak tangling with his in the wind.

Loghain watched them darkly from his tent. The wind had brought him their small exchange, and he did not like it. He said as much that morning, greeting the Warden with, "What did you mean '_thank you_?'"

The Warden had looked quite taken aback at his question. "I beg your pardon?"

But Vidar chuckled as he packed away his tent. "Don't be jealous, Fereldan. She and I both know you wouldn't be man enough to do what has to be done."

"Vidar!" the Warden hissed, "How _dare_ you say such a thing."

"Fine," Vidar strapped the bundle to his saddle. "I'll save the arrow for the dog and he can be the one to slit your throat."

"What is he talking about, Aurora?" Loghain levied her a hard stare over his saddle.

"Do you ever wonder," The Warden went about packing up her own supplies, "why there aren't many female Grey Wardens?"

Loghain considered this. When the Grey Wardens had come to Maric, they were led by a woman, Genevieve. Sophia Dryden had been a woman. He hadn't seen any female Grey Wardens at Ostagar, other than the Warden, but he thought that merely due to chance. "I have never noticed," replied Loghain honestly. "If what you say is indeed the case, then why? Is there some reason why there are more male Grey Wardens than female?"

The Warden nodded. "Do you ever wonder how darkspawn…" she sought for the correct word; reproduce wasn't quite accurate, "multiply?"

It took Loghain only a few seconds to comprehend her meaning. His eyes widened and his jaw clenched, and he looked at the Warden with a ferocity that she hadn't seen since the Landsmeet. "Why would they conscript _anyone _knowing that? Why would Duncan conscript _you _knowing that?"

"I suspect the majority of them do not care," said the Warden simply, "about gender when they recruit. They merely _want _Grey Wardens."

"Idiots," he seethed, "with no sense of decency or long term planning. What good is an army of Grey Wardens if half that army will then lend itself to _breeding _them? They've already _lost _their battle! No wonder there are so many darkspawn. The Grey Wardens themselves are increasing their number!" His voice echoed down through the vast plain below them.

The Warden could only shrug, and shot a dark look over her shoulder to where Vidar was laughing at Loghain's outrage some feet away. "Hurlocks come from humans. Genlocks come from dwarves. Ogres come from the Qunari. The shrieks come from elves."

"Disgusting."

Vidar did his best to stifle his amusement and cut his laughter short. He wrinkled his nose and took a quick inhale, smelling the air with practiced precision. "Alright, I think you've gotten him fired up enough, _Commander. _Let's _go." _He didn't have to say that every moment they lingered on the rise, the less of a chance they'd have to get out of the wasteland by nightfall.

"If things go badly," said the Warden quietly, approaching Loghain, "I would rather die than be taken alive. I would not wish this horror even on Rendon Howe." She stood on the opposite side of Gharin and placed her hands on the saddle against Loghain's.

"I understand." Loghain placed his gauntlets over the Warden's, squeezing them in promise. If things went badly on the plains, he would not let them take her alive. If he had to, as Vidar put it, slit her throat, he would do it.

"Thank you," the Warden replied, throwing a small smile Loghain's way.

"If you two _lovers_," crowed Vidar, "are _done, _I _suggest _we get on our way." This time he did vocalize the threat: "unless you're interested in spawning a new breed of four legged darkspawn?"

With bitter glances to Vidar, Loghain and the Warden finished their strapping and securing, mounted their horses, and followed Vidar down a cleared trail to the vast plain of dead taint. The remnants of a road could be seen in the breaks and cracks of the tainted land. Ancient stones, hewn from the mountain, littered the landscape. There were grooves in the stone, evidence of engravings done long ago. But the stones were charred and weathered, and the writing was illegible and foreign. It marked perhaps an old trade road of the dwarves of Kal-Sharok, or of a much expanded Tevinter Imperium. Yet whatever it had once been, it now was not. This old road had fallen out of use, for no one dared travel these wild wastes.

They made good time across the plain. The land was flat and even, though it was filled with holes. Vidar, however, seemed to know exactly where to ride, and so they avoided the deep and sudden grooves in the earth. None of the horses, or Dane, broke their legs in darkspawn warrens or pits, though they were panting and covered in sweat by the time they broke the other side of the wasteland. The sky had turned a sickly gray, highlighted with streaks of red and purple as the sun set. The wasteland refused to absorb the colors of the sunset, and remained a stark, forbidding picture.

There was no high ground for them on the other side of the wastes, so they spent that night nestled in the shadow of a wind worn statue. The statue was ten times higher than Loghain, and four times as broad at its base. Small details still remained, such as the carving on the figure's sandals and the draping of cloth around the figure's right leg. But most of the giant statue had been worn to a shapeless husk by the elements. There was no indication who carved it, or for what purpose, only that it was there, and it provided some measure of physical protection against the darkspawn that roamed the wastes. It provided no psychological protection however, and as the wind brought the screaming and groaning of darkspawn in the wastes to the Wardens that night each of them found it hard to sleep.

Things were considerably better after that. Though Vidar did not slow their pace, they felt less threatened by the darkspawn than they did before. The land was also relatively flat, which made traveling on the horses easier. As Vidar led them once more to the Hunterhorns and the path that would take them to Weisshaupt, the land began to get a bit rougher, and there were times when the Wardens had to dismount and walk their horses. The mountains themselves were quite cold, the snowcapped peaks looming above and before them as they hiked along a very well worn path that had been carved into the cliff face. The Wardens wrapped themselves tightly in their fur cloaks and winced against the wind that whistled across the mountains. The winds brought the icy lash of winter, as well as snow the further up they climbed.

Like everything else made of stone they'd seen so far, Weisshaupt was weather-beaten and frost-worn. It jutted proudly atop a long, large cliff that faced Tevinter. It stared boldly into the home of the Magisters, daring for the corrupted mages to pass into its vigilant gaze. And though the wind had shorn off the faces and the wingtips of the griffons that stood guard against them, the home of the Grey Wardens was no less impressive. Below Weisshaupt and at the foot of the mountains stretched a vast forest of deep green trees.

The Wardens' path intersected with a well traveled trade road shortly before Weisshaupt's gate. Loghain guessed that the road was a subset of the Imperial Highway and wound its way towards the Tevinter Imperium and Nevarra. Despite the snow on the ground around them, the road was clear of it. The Warden spied Dane hopping from foot to foot the closer they got to Weisshaupt, and how he growled at the cobblestones.

"Vidar?" she prompted, pointing to Dane.

"Fire crystals embedded in the stone," he explained in a bored voice. "Keeps the snow off the path. Let's a Grey Warden army travel without fear of losing their way."

She frowned. "Don't they lose their potency?"

Vidar grunted. "Do _I _look like a mage? Don't waste my time with stupid questions."

They passed the remainder of the trip in silence, the snow falling gently around them. Those snowflakes that fell against the road hissed quietly as they dissolved against the heat.

Weisshaupt was a city that made use of not only the cliff face its base was situated on, but also small cliff faces above it. Parts of the city seemed to be built into the mountain itself, the stone pulled forward in unnatural arrangements that hinted at some arcane assistance in Weisshaupt's construction. Walls many feet high surrounded the city, protecting both the first and second levels of the city from view. They could not, however, expand high enough to cover the aeries that soared in the air. Though the griffons had all died, the aeries remained, their huge stone perches and archways supported by large stone towers. From the now defunct griffon nests to the walls of Weisshaupt, everything was made from the same pale, grey stone.

The doors of Weisshaupt were open, allowing the Wardens to pass through into the fortress. It took them several moments to pass through them, as the walls were five men thick and built to withstand not only the test of time, but an entire darkspawn horde. Waiting for them beyond a second set of thick doors were a dozen or so fully armed and armored Grey Wardens. There were Grey Wardens patrolling the walls above them, and Grey Wardens walking around the streets, but none of them paid the three newcomers any mind.

The guards, however, recognized Vidar immediately. Each saluted him and called him by his name, and Vidar gave each of them a grim nod in return.

"And who do you bring with you, Vidar?" they asked. "They are Grey Wardens, but unknown to us."

"This is the Warden Commander of Ferelden and her second," he explained. "They want to see the First. As do I."

"Your father is very busy, Vidar," replied one of the Grey Wardens, a tall man with a thick, black beard and heavy accent.

"For them, I'm sure," he drawled in reply. "But not for me." He nudged his horse by the Grey Warden guards and moved towards the bustling street. "Good luck, _Fereldans,_" he called loudly over his shoulder. "And welcome to Weisshaupt Fortress."

The Grey Wardens on the walls and along the street turned to stare at the two newcomers. From the suspicious narrowing of their eyes, it was evident that Weisshaupt Fortress was not really all that welcoming. Loghain had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and by the stiffening of the Warden's shoulders and the slight tilt of her chin upwards, it was clear that she did too. Cold and bitter like their winters indeed.

"You are Warden Commander Aurora Cousland?" the bearded man said again. "And Loghain Mac Tir?"

The Wardens both nodded.

"We have heard about you, and what happened in Ferelden. Your country was very lucky," he continued.

"It _is _very lucky," corrected the Warden.

The bearded man raised an eyebrow at her comment, considering her words. "Your country is very lucky," he amended. He put a hand to his chest. "I am Orel, Captain of the Grey Watch. These men around me are your brothers and mine."

"A pleasure, Orel," the Warden inclined her head.

"I cannot leave my post, but Garn can. Garn," Orel called, and out of the group of Grey Wardens stepped forth a tall man with bright blue eyes. "You will take our Fereldan brother and sister to the west dormitory, and then report directly to Senior Warden Rein and let him know of their arrival. You will then return to me."

"Yes, Orel," Garn dipped his head forward in acknowledgement and then spread his arm toward the street that Vidar had left by. "Follow me."

Weisshaupt was not so different from Val Royeaux in terms of the types of buildings it possessed. There were shops and forges, stables (which they visited first) and apartments, but it was apparent that such structures were more for the benefit of visitors and merchants than they were for Grey Wardens. The taverns were a different story, however, for these structures and the training courtyards made up the nexus of the Grey Warden social structure. The higher up they went into the fortress, the narrower the streets became and the more tightly compact the buildings were. There were also many more Grey Wardens on the upper rises of the fortress, which added to the cramped feel. Dane pressed himself tightly against his mistress's legs, not wanting to be lost in the strange fortress.

Garn seemed to know everyone they encountered, and while they sent smiles to him, they only sent wary glances to the Warden and Loghain when Garn introduced them. No one had smiled at either of them since they'd arrived, and neither knew which they preferred more: the illusion of welcome that was Val Royeaux, or the blunt, almost palpable hostility of Weisshaupt. Loghain was leaning towards Weisshaupt's honesty, but the Warden was just the opposite. She hated the Orlesian duplicity, but she felt more at home there than she did in the snow and ice of Weisshaupt.

It was not long before they were standing outside a large, wooden building with four thick plumes of smoke rising from its roof. They were at the west dormitory. Unlike Val Royeaux, which had rooms, apartments, town houses for their Grey Wardens to reside in, the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt lived in large dormitories that were placed strategically throughout the fortress to provide the walls and gate houses with the maximum amount of support. These dormitories were like a military's barracks. There were no individual bedrooms, no spaces for solitary reflection, there was nothing that would provide a boundary between the self and one's comrades. The only reason that there were walls in this place, Loghain guessed as he observed the surroundings, was out of architectural necessity.

It was explained to them as they were led through the dormitory's dark and crowded corridors, pushing aside Grey Wardens as they walked, that there were many large buildings like this one in Weisshaupt. Each room had fifty beds, and each building had four identical rooms. Grey Wardens _needed _to be with other Grey Wardens. It was the nature of their calling: just as the darkspawn seek each other out, so too do Grey Wardens. A Warden who sought solitude or privacy was sick, as Grey Wardens have nothing to hide from one another. The only cure for a sick Warden was their Calling, or the presence of their brothers and sisters.

Garn opened a door to one of the sleeping quarters, ushering the two Grey Wardens in. The beds were bunked and arranged in rows along the walls, nestled so tightly together that the Grey Wardens might as well have been sleeping with one another in one large bed, rather than in their own individual beds. There was a fire roaring in a stone fireplace along the far wall, and this was the only place in the room in which beds were not squeezed. Other than beds, the only pieces of furniture in the room were large, wooden trunks, and there was one of these placed at the foot of every bed.

The Warden opened her mouth to ask why there was only one trunk per bunk, but Garn seemed to be anticipating the question.

"Bunk partners share trunks."

"Ah."

He led them to a pair of bunked beds on the right wall, about six or so bunks away from the fireplace. He tapped the trunk there with his boot and then slapped one of the thick wooden posts of the bed with a meaty fist. "You will sleep here. Warden Commander, you're on the top. Warden Loghain, you're on the bottom."

"That is usually our arrangement," said the Warden with a firm nod, letting her saddlebag drop to the floor and busying herself with inspecting the make of the beds. Loghain could have sworn he heard a smirk in her voice, but her face was stern as she inspected the bed frame and the make of the sheets, rubbing the material between two gauntleted fingers. She was tall enough that the top bunk only came to the tops of her shoulders.

Dane, unable to reach the top bunk, crawled onto the lower bunk and settled himself on the sheets. Loghain was too busy staring hard at Garn to notice.

Garn was about to move away, but Loghain clapped him on the shoulder and drew the man back in. "When will we have our audience with the First Warden?" asked Loghain.

"Soon, brother," Garn replied. "When the Warden Commander has been deemed safe to see the First Warden, then you will see him." And with a curt nod of his head and grim smile, he left the two Wardens on their own.

"Curious," said the Warden, brushing past Loghain and kneeling down to open the trunk. "They make quite a fuss about camaraderie and what I am assuming is equality, but they will keep the dangerous Warden Commander Aurora Cousland in a room filled with other Grey Wardens, yet not let her see one man. She could do her brothers and sisters tremendous harm. Most curious, wouldn't you say?"

Loghain knelt beside her and took a look over his shoulder to gauge what the other Grey Wardens in the room were doing – no one was paying attention to them, and most of them were bunked near the door and likely couldn't hear them anyway. "You obviously don't want to hear me say it."

"Hear you say what?" the Warden raised an eyebrow in amusement and began to place her most used items from her saddlebag and put them in the trunk.

"That they're hypocrites. I knew it when Maric brought them back, and I knew it when Cailan wanted to involve them in the battle at Ostagar. And you," he gave her a meaningful stare, "confirmed it when you commented about female Grey Wardens."

"At one point," the Warden admitted quietly, "I thought that I could be an obedient Grey Warden. I put Alistair on the throne because I believed in what Riordan and Alistair told me, but I am _happy _he renounced his ties." She gave a rueful chuckle, "otherwise I would have made a terrible mistake. He would have been a Grey Warden puppet king."

Loghain mirrored the Warden's actions and began to sort through his saddlebag and traveling kits. "I would never have forgiven you," he looked up briefly to regard her as he spoke, and then returned to his sorting.

"Well, you would probably also be dead. As would I." She gave a small sigh. "These are not the people, this is not the organization I thought it was. I have seen a new side of it, a side I wish that I had never seen."

Loghain only grunted at her wistfulness. "It was better to know about this sooner rather than later."

"I know that." The Warden could only shrug. "But I want to change it."

"Maker help you if you can, girl."

They were about half way through unpacking their things when two Grey Wardens came to meet them. Both Wardens were wearing thick, grey robes that had delicate silver embroidery. Over these robes they wore silverite pauldrons, breastplates, and gauntlets, and at their waists were belted long swords. They were mages; warrior mages, and by the looks of their faces, they were brothers.

"Greetings, Wardens," one of them chimed. "You are welcome in Weisshaupt. It is your home, as it is ours."

The Warden shot a quick glance to Loghain and quickly stood. She extended her gauntlet to one of them. "And to you, Brother. Amaranthine is your home, as it is ours."

The Grey Warden who had addressed them raised his eyebrows in amusement and bobbed his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you, sister."

"I am Warden Lukas, and this is my brother Warden Malte," said the previously quiet Grey Warden.

"And you are twins?" asked the Warden, gesturing between them. Straight down to the way they wore their blond ringlets, they were identical.

"We are," said Lukas.

"How shall we," the Warden made a small motion with her hand for Loghain to join them, "tell you apart?"

"You will learn somehow," Malte said with a shrug, "or you will always make the mistake. My brother and I feel very different from one another. When you become familiar with us, you will know. However, now is not the time for such practice." Malte absently put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Warden Lukas and I have been instructed to bring you before Warden Kettil, so that he may find you safe for the First."

Loghain's displeasure was palpable, a thing that could almost be touched in the air, when he heard the words. The Warden took notice of it, speaking quickly before Loghain could. "I see. And what sort of tests, exactly?"

"I would not know. We have never had someone," Lukas sent Loghain an apologetic smile, seeing the thick lines on the other man's face deepen, "like you before."

The Warden turned to Loghain and placed a gauntlet on his arm. "Loghain, it would appear that I will be in the keeping of Warden Kettil for a few hours. Will you manage on your own?"

"I will," Loghain replied tersely. "Do not be gone for too long, Commander."

"We will return when Warden Kettil is finished." Malte sent Loghain a hard look. "No sooner, no later."

In the smile that the Warden shot Loghain, and the way she squeezed his arm in parting, it was evident that she knew, just as he did, whatever it was that Warden Kettil had in mind would not be quick, and likely would not be painless. She had a look in her eye that Loghain recognized: a look of inevitable understanding. He had seen it in the eyes of dogs that had to be put down, or men who were on the verge of death. He had seen it _clearly _in the eyes of the Chevalier Commander at River Dane, just before he'd shoved his dagger into the man's visor. They both knew that no matter what happened, _this _was the only way they could move forward, and they had come too far and done too much to back out of it now. And so Loghain watched her go with a frown on his face, being led away like a prisoner to the gallows between the two tall Grey Warden mages.

And she had been right.

Loghain was awake when they brought her in late that night. He had been reviewing an old scroll about Grey Warden history that one of his sleeping neighbors had given him when the door to the dormitory opened. Most of the Grey Wardens were sleeping in their beds, the forty or so of them currently in their bunks having all retired at the same hour as was their custom. They took no notice of Wardens Lukas and Malte dragging the Warden Commander of Ferelden over the floor in the shadowy light of Loghain's candle, one of her armored arms slung over each of their shoulders, her head sagging forward. The drag of the toes of her boots along the floorboards caused the wood to scrape and groan with each of the twins' steps.

Both Dane and Loghain were quick to rise from the bed at her approach, and an unarmored Loghain extended his arms and took the cold, pale bundle from the mages. She sagged heavily against him. To Loghain she smelt of the air before a thunderstorm, earthy, thick, sweet, and yet rotten. The blood magic lingered on her like honey, and it made Loghain's fingertips sticky and numb to touch her. He shot the two Grey Warden mages an accusing stare, but they paid no notice to it.

"Kettil says she is safe," said Malte. "The First will see you in the morning."

No sooner had the words been said, the Wardens were already walking away, each of their steps falling in unison. Malte and Lukas were at the door by the time Loghain laid the Warden on his bunk and whispered hoarsely into her hair, "No more. Never again." He took her bunk that night and slept fitfully. His dreams were dark and plagued with thoughts of nightmarish darkspawn all wearing the Warden's face. When he awoke the next morning, it was in a cold sweat and sour mood.

His ire was lifted when he found the Warden sitting on the edge of the bottom bunk, scratching Dane's stomach with her fingers. She flicked her grey, bloodshot eye up to him when she saw him descend, and gave him a wry smile. She was still pale, and the cut just under her jaw where Warden Kettil had struck her with his knife to draw her blood was bright red and garish against her skin. But she was safe, whole, and the resolve (and anger) in her grey eye shone as bright as ever. And he was glad. She caught his hand and dropped a kiss to his palm before releasing him so that he could go get ready for their meeting with the First.

Together, they were ready.

Together, they were strong.

* * *

_Some minor geographic changes in this chapter: I extended the Hunterhorn Mountains and moved Weisshaupt into them for cinematic splendor. Suspend your disbelief and work with me for about another chapter or two; we'll not be returning to this location again. _

_Just as a personal update, I am done with the law school process now. Inspiration is coming a bit more quickly, and writing is now a completely guilt free activity once more. I am excited. _

_Lady Winde, my beloved and much coveted beta, is in the process of drawing a fantastic picture of Empress Celene in her masquerade costume. That'll probably be finished in a couple of livestream sessions or two, right, Miss Winde? Right? I updated the fanmix just for you!_

_And as always, I must end this chapter with a great big thanks to _Trovommi Amor's _followers. While I am satisfied just writing the story for myself, I am pleased to no end that others are enjoying it too._

_Next up, Interlude XI!_


	44. Interlude XI

**Interlude XI: Dane **

_ Loghain did not expect Bryce Cousland to visit his study that afternoon, but he did. He had just settled down at his desk and was thumbing through a report that Cailan "didn't have time to read" when he heard a knock at his door and a soft, "Loghain?" from the other side of it. _

_ Loghain contemplated pretending that he wasn't in. He glanced out one of the windows and saw that rain had begun to fall. Bryce would probably have to ride back in that rain, but it was just as likely that Bryce had come in his covered carriage. No one would be getting wet except the guardsmen. _

_ "I'm in," Loghain called. He shuffled the report in front of him meaningfully as Bryce entered, indicating just how busy he was to the perpetually pleasant Bryce Cousland. He nodded to one of the heavy wooden chairs in front of his desk, giving Bryce permission to sit. _

_ "How're you today, Loghain?" asked Bryce pleasantly, settling himself on the edge of one of the chairs. _

_ Loghain raised an eyebrow. "Come now, Bryce, you did not just interrupt me from my work to ask me how my day was?" _

_ "I was trying to be polite," Bryce chuckled, "but if you're so eager to hear what's on my mind, I shan't deny you the pleasure. It is actually an odd question I have for you." _

_ "Go on, then." _

_ "What does one get one's daughter when they come of age?"_

_ Loghain was taken aback by the other man's question, as he always was when Bryce came to him for parenting advice. Ever since Aurora, Bryce's daughter, had been born, Loghain had been a tome of sage advice. Loghain considered himself the _last_ person to go to for any sort of advice regarding children. He had been a distant father, and was not in possession of a naturally warm and friendly temperament. Any success in Anora's upbringing had come from Celia. Yet, Bryce persisted. Loghain had been questioned on everything from habits to hobbies._

_ "A sharper sword," he said after some length. _

_ Bryce laughed at that. "Well, she has plenty of those already!"_

_ "What does Eleanor want to get her?" _

_ "Eleanor and I are giving her separate gifts." _

_ "Ah," Loghain nodded. The luxury of having two living parents who were among the wealthiest individuals in Ferelden. Life was very good to Aurora Cousland. "What was your first instinct, then?" _

_ "I thought I might have something crafted for her. Perhaps a brooch or a ring." Bryce sighed. "But that seems a very simple sort of gift."_

_ "Simplicity is not bad." _

_ "She has plenty of rings and pins though. This would be just one more to add to her growing collection. The pain of daughters." He chuckled, "They sparkle and horde like magpies." _

_ Loghain shared in Bryce's wan smile. "I understand."_

_ "What did you get Anora?" _

_ "Books," Loghain replied. "_Orlesian_ books." His face soured. Anora had wanted some very rare manuscripts that she claimed could only be found in Orlais. Loghain had paid a small fortune to get her them. _

_ Bryce was flushed with amusement. "That must have been her idea." _

_ "Yes. She didn't like my first suggestion," he said dryly. "She'll make her father run about like a mabari, but doesn't want one herself." _

_ "You were going to get her a mabari?" _

_ "I had planned to." Loghain sighed. "She was disinterested." Anora had explicitly said that she didn't have the time to care for a mabari, as nice a thought as it was. She was too busy studying (and being courted, he remembered grimly) to give it the necessary attention and care. _

_ Something seemed to have settled in Bryce's mind, and he pursed his lips in thought. "Hmmm. You know, Loghain, you might be on to something." _

_ "Are you going to get Aurora her very own mabari?" _

_ "It would make sense. A mabari would protect her and keep her busy. She'd also be less lonely. Heh," Bryce shook his head, "if she isn't training with Fergus, then she's in the larder with the cats. She's a funny one, my daughter." _

_ Loghain was having a hard time imagining Bryce's daughter sitting on the floor surrounded by cats of different sorts, with dried meat hanging above her head and dusty onions at her feet. It was much easier to envision her hollering at her brother in the training grounds, for that was how Loghain had last seen her: head to toe in mud, yelling at her brother for having thrown her into it. He'd then watched her beat him black and blue with her sword, not stopping until he cried, "Mercy, dear sister, mercy!" _

_ "I should have planned this better. Maker's breath, I haven't even the slightest idea how the Formari handle such matters." _

_ "I would visit the Circle Tower in person," Loghain advised, "and make a request. Bring Aurora as well, since the mabari won't be for you and the Formari will likely want to know who they're breeding for specifically. You would need to bring Aurora to the Circle Tower anyway," Loghain advised, "as a mabari imprints on its owner. It has to choose her. _She_ can't choose it." _

_ "Did you do that for Anora?" _

_ Loghain only nodded. He'd visited the Circle Tower to inquire about a mabari, and it had been with great disappointment that he'd written to them explaining that he would not be purchasing one. He had honestly considered requesting a mabari for himself, but he could not in good faith take care of one. If Anora's time was precious, then so too was Loghain's; for both Mac Tir young and old, Ferelden was a harsh taskmaster who demanded more and more of them each year. _

_It was a strain that Loghain had become used to over the years; though a small part of him had hoped that when Cailan took the throne he would no longer be necessary. Loghain could withstand the boredom of watching from the sidelines, so long as Ferelden's king was strong and of sound mind. Unfortunately, the opposite had happened. Cailan was much beloved by the people, but was not much loved by his advisors. When he insisted on doing work (on those very rare occasions), he often did it wrong. Loghain would spend hours correcting and rewriting reports; hours that he would not have had to have spent if he had done them himself in the first place. Against his judgment, he had been placated and cajoled by Eamon and the others to "let the boy have his responsibility." Cailan had _plenty_ of responsibility, and not a single inclination to do any of the work involved with it. He wanted to ride, and talk, and on occasion "consort." He was very much Maric's son. _

_Once in a while, reports came in from Anora's hand. These usually happened when she was tired of Cailan putting off his duties, and so took them upon herself. Such reports were coming in increasing number. She made mistakes too, but hers were very easily corrected and it would not be long before they wouldn't have to pass in front of Loghain for inspection. Ferelden had at least _one_ capable ruler: its queen. _

_No, Loghain could not afford to give a mabari the attention it deserved. He only hoped that the Cousland girl could. _

_8-8-8_

_ When Bryce returned to Highever more than a month later, it was with a hearty kiss to his wife, a gentler kiss to Oriana's forehead, a matching kiss to Oren's forehead, and a clap on his son's shoulder. The person he needed to see, however, was not present. "Where is Aurora?" _

_ Fergus had grinned at him. "She is where she usually is, father." _

_ And that meant she was in the larder with the cats. Bryce strode past bowing elven servants and a rather red-faced Nan to find his daughter sprawled out on the floor of the larder completely oblivious to everything around her. Her legs were propped up on a sack of grain and she was resting her head on a bag of onions. In her hands was a book she had procured from her personal collection, and all around her were lounging the castle's many cats. A particularly fat, ginger blob had found its way onto her stomach and was purring contently each time it rose and fell with her breath while another mottled grey, pug-faced cat was slowly creeping its way towards the crook of her elbow to nap. _

_ "They're in there all the time, Your Grace," Nan muttered in the doorway behind him. "The cats and the girl." _

_The two states of Aurora Cousland: ready for battle, or completely and utterly subdued. Dressed as she was in one of Fergus's old tunics, a pair of thin black leggings, and a thick pair of worn boots, she looked more like one of Nan's daughters than his. He also didn't know who was more insolent: the cats that didn't baulk at the sound of the door creaking open, or the daughter who didn't even lift her eyes from her book at his presence. _

"_Pup," he said sternly, and watched the slow pull of her eyes from the book to his face. She raised her eyebrows in question, and then flashed him a large smile. _

"_Father!" she chirped. "You are back from Denerim early." The book was lowered to her chest, though she made no move to sit up. From its position on her stomach, the ginger cat glared hatefully at Bryce with its yellow eyes. _

"_I was there longer than I expected, actually." He put a hand to his mouth to cover his sneeze. "Pup, how can you breathe?" _

_ "With much clarity," she responded dryly. "I am immune to their fur."_

_ With watering eyes, Bryce could not say the same. "Aren't you the lucky one then."_

_ She nodded her agreement. _

_ Bryce settled himself against the edge of the door frame, crossing his arms across his chest as he did so. "Pup, I want to talk to you about something." _

"_Ask away."_

_He shook his head. "Not here. I can-," he sneezed again, "-not tolerate the cat hair." _

"Oohhh_," Aurora drawled. "Very well." She looked down at the cat on her stomach and heaved a great sigh that had the cat purring. "Time for you to move, fluffbucket." _

"Mohw_," the cat protested, hissing at the fingers that tickled its sides playfully. _

"Hoooo so aaannnnggryyy_," teased Aurora, stroking and toying with the cat's fur until it had had enough and scrambled away from her. She gently scratched behind the ears of the grey cat that had been trying to settle itself in the crook of her elbow before standing and brushing the cat fur off her tunic. The cats she had disturbed with her standing picked their way carefully around her legs and rubbed their heads against her boots. "They think I have food in my pockets," she explained to her father with a shy smile, "but I don't." _

_Bryce only smiled as he watched his daughter weave her way through the crying chorus of cats, picking her legs up high as she stepped around them the way the cats might do when they got something sticky on their paws. She was at the door when he realized just how tall she was; he always forgot how much she had grown. Both Fergus and Aurora had managed to surpass him in height, unlike Rendon's children who had not yet surpassed their father in stature. "Grow anymore, pup," he said kindly, "and I'll have to start craning my neck to look up at you." _

_This elicited a small laugh from Aurora, who nudged him playfully with her shoulder. "Oh, father, I do not think you have to worry about that. I stopped growing years ago! Besides," she gave Nan a nod as they left the larder, "it is Oren you should worry about. He's going to be a tall boy, I think." _

"_Taller than Fergus, do you think?"_

"_Taller than _you, _at least__." She nudged him with her shoulder again, careful not to apply too much force lest she send her father sprawling into one of the servants scurrying around them to get dinner underway. "How was Denerim?" _

"_It was very rainy," replied Bryce as he ushered his daughter through the castle to his study. "But it was a productive visit, and that is all that one can hope for." _

_ "Do you have anything for me?" The question was followed by a coy look over her shoulder and a quick bat of her eyelashes. _

_ Bryce raised an eyebrow. "And why would I have anything for you, pup?" _

_ "Oh," she smiled a wide and white thing and wrinkled her nose in affection, "maybe because I am your _only_ daughter and my birthday is only a few days away!" _

_ "Do you know what your mother is getting you?" he asked, deflecting her prying. _

_ "I can guess," she replied, happiness somewhat dampened. "She wants to take me to the Free Marches…. Probably to find me a husband. Worse: she threatened to take me to Starkhaven. That is a very _long_ ways away from here, father." _

_ "I highly doubt your mother would try to marry you to one of the families in Starkhaven." _

_ "Grandmother is from Starkhaven," she countered, voice raising in pitch though she lowered her voice to only a whisper. "It is not so strange for mothers to marry their daughters to foreign nobles." _

_ "You are," Bryce frowned severely, scolding his imaginative daughter, "being ridiculous. Clear your head of such nonsense, pup. If she wants to take you to the Free Marches, it is probably to buy you something."_

_ "But what if she _does_?" _

_ Bryce let out a frustrated exhale. "I am not having this conversation with you, Aurora. Your mother is not your grandmother, nor is she your great grandmother." _

_ "Teyrn Loghain and King Maric had their children betrothed without their consent," she grumbled. "What if she tries to marry me into the Vael family? Their sons are so - "_

_He could tell that his daughter had not had much human contact while he was away. She launched into the daily happenings of the castle and her place in them, what she had observed, and what she thought needed to be done without any prompting whatsoever. It was one of her many curious habits that mystified Bryce and made him happy to be a parent: his daughter was prone to long bouts of lonely silence and isolation, but at the first sign of human interest or familiarity she was quick to spill absolutely everything that was on her mind. From her opinions on history, to weapons, to dinner, even to the gossip of the castle, she had something to say. This time, however, she was spilling her anxieties; they were slipping from her mouth as water sloshes from a full glass. _

_ "Aurora." Bryce stopped them in the middle of the hallway and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Stop it now. We have had this discussion many times before: when _you_ want to get married, _you_ will get married. You are in the fortunate position of not being our first born, which gives you more liberties than Fergus in that regard." There would come a time, Bryce knew, when those liberties would come to an end and Aurora would have to start doing her duty – not only to her family, but also to Ferelden. And though that time was approaching, it had not yet come upon her, and he was loathe to press the issue at that moment. He had just arrived home and did not want to argue with his daughter. _

"_And thank the Maker," she said with gusto, "that Fergus and Oriana have fulfilled their conjugal duties! Otherwise that would be up to me." _

_Aurora's fears tended to range from anything to spiders to marriage, and were fairly mutable given her interests at the time. Before he had left, she had been deathly afraid that both he and Eleanor were going to face an untimely end and leave both she and Fergus as orphans. "And worse, father," she had said, "what if Fergus dies too? Then I shall be all by myself." This had been said without tears or womanly warbling, but the fear had been a bright, shining light in her dove-grey eyes. While her anxieties did cause him pain and a preponderance of worry, they were a curious phenomenon and he often wondered where they came from. He suspected that they were a combination of too much freedom and privilege. Having never had to worry about practical things, such as having enough food on the table and money in your purse to pay Orlesian tax collectors, it was only natural that his daughter's troubles might border on the bizarre. _

"_You may find yourself changing your mind in five years time, Aurora." Unsure what else to say, Bryce gave her a shoulder a parting squeeze before turning to continue their journey through the castle to his study. _

_Aurora followed sullenly behind him, cowed by his fatherly indifference. The scratch and scrape of her boots dragging along the many rugs they walked over was the only sound that passed between them. When Bryce opened the door to his study and ushered her in, she didn't look at him. She headed straight to one of the high-backed chairs that had been imported from Antiva. The merchant who had sold them the chairs had claimed that while the Antivans were not known for holding meetings, their chairs were most comfortable. She settled herself against the dark brown leather and crossed her arms over her chest. _

_Bryce sat in his chair on the opposite side of the desk and rested his elbows on its edge. He took notice of his daughter's blank expression and the impenetrable wall of stillness that she had draped over her face like a veil. That _usually_ meant she was upset. "Pup, your face will stay like that." _

"_So be it," she replied in a placid voice. _

_The Teyrn of Highever sighed. "I suppose I should get to the heart of the matter then: pup, you are getting older."_

"_I know. I have wrinkles and everything to prove it." _

_He chuckled at the dryness of her tone. "And the bitterness to match too, I see. But as I was saying… you are getting older." It was hard for him to admit it, too. "More will be expected of you, in regards to both your filial and social responsibilities. Your mother gave you her vicious tongue and strong sword arm, and while I know you can use both of them equally well… you may find yourself needing some help."_

"_Are you giving me a squire?" Aurora asked with some amusement. _

_Bryce shook his head. "No, I'm giving you something a lot smarter and useful: a mabari." He watched in satisfaction as her eyes widened. _

"_A…a mabari war hound? For _me_?" Aurora seemed to be at a loss for words. _

_Bryce could see the thoughts flickering across her features: _

Oh, Maker! A mabari!

…Is he serious?

I get a dog!

…But there must be some sort of catch.

_Her eyes narrowed and she tilted her head to one side. Aurora observed her father with a shrewd gaze. "What exactly is your angle, father?" _

"_My angle?" Bryce could only chuckle. "My darling daughter, I know you enjoy the company of animals more than you do most people, and it seemed a waste of my money and your time to buy you yet another horse." _

"_I ride all my horses," his daughter clarified. "All six; every single one. They are not neglected."_

"_Nor did I say they were, but another would be neither prudent nor practical. I also don't think you'd derive much pleasure from yet another piece of jewelry. I can see you wear the many pieces you already own a great deal." Bryce said that ironically, of course, for the girl was wearing no jewelry except for her signet ring and tiny golden hoops in her ears. _

"_I am sorry for my suspicions, father. This just seems," she pursed her lips as she searched for the words, "too good to be true. Mabari are the breed of legend. True Fereldan symbols."_

"_I know, pup."_

"_But," she frowned, "they also choose their owner. Father, what if we cannot find a mabari who will choose me?"_

"_Given your experiences with the castle's cats, it may be more appropriate to fear having every mabari you meet choosing you." _

"_Heh," Aurora shrugged her shoulders. "You are very optimistic about this."_

_He offered his daughter a kind smile. "I just think it is too early to worry about such a thing. We have not even decided when we are leaving for the Circle Tower, let alone _meeting_ a mabari. The Formari may not even have any mabari at this time of year."_

_ "Well," Aurora leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. "When were you planning on taking me to Lake Calenhad and the Circle Tower? Soon?" _

_ "I had thought so, yes," agreed Bryce. "I thought we might depart early next week, weather permitting." _

_ "Does mother know?" She cast her eyes to the door. _

_ "Not yet, but she will soon. Why?" Bryce couldn't help riling his daughter up, "Is that when she plans to take you to Starkhaven to meet your future husband?"_

_ Aurora only glowered in response and narrowed her eyes when her father began to laugh. _

_ "I am sorry, Aurora, that was a jest in poor taste."_

_ "Hmph." She was only slightly mollified by the apology, and was quick to change the subject. "Am I allowed to tell Fergus?"_

_ "Of course you can, pup. I suspect that he will not be as jealous as you think though."_

_ "I will do my best to make him so." _

"_Oh dear," Bryce heard the sullen tone in his daughter's voice and recognized that something had happened, "what has your brother done now to warrant your anger, Aurora?" _

"_He had," she explained, "Sergeant Hayward exclude me from yesterday's skirmishes." She let out a frustrated sigh. "We were going to reenact the Battle of River Dane so as to get a better grasp on the basics of tactical warfare. We had been planning and training for weeks, yet 'young acting Teyrn' Fergus decided that it wouldn't be appropriate for his younger sister to play the role of Loghain Mac Tir and lead the assault on Chevalier Commander Hayward. He didn't think it would be fitting for me to participate at all, and so relegated me to the rank of spectator."_

_Bryce's eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Does Sergeant Hayward often reenact past historical battles?" _

"_Only the ones he participated in."_

_It was true; Hayward had been at River Dane with Loghain. He had been in many battles with Loghain, both on and off the battlefield. "While I am not a reader of minds, my guess would be that your brother did not want you to steal the day's lessons. We all know how crafty you are on the battlefield, it was probably best that someone else got the experience." _

"_It makes me no less bitter. A successful army should be led by an experienced soldier and tactician. If what you said is true, father, then I should have retained my role." _

"_Maybe so, but part of that experience comes from training, which you were participating in. Don't dwell on it, my daughter. It was not meant maliciously."_

"_I am still going to make him jealous."_

_He could only shake his head. "Do whatever pleases you." _

_8-8-8_

_ A week later, Bryce and Aurora were standing outside the Circle Tower and looking up at the grand doors that led to it. It was rainy and cold, and the boat they had traveled across in had rocked so much that their stomachs were unsettled. All the templars had fled inside with the rain save for those who were stationed at the watch posts circling the Tower's island. _

_ Bryce looked at his daughter. "Do you suppose we knock?" _

_ Aurora only shrugged and strode to the door. She knocked hard on the wood, letting her leather-clad fist make a wet, hollow sound as she did so. A few moments later, the door swung open and revealed a heavily armored man bearing the sword of Andraste on his breastplate. _

_ "State your name and your business at the Circle Tower," the templar said. _

_ "I am Bryce Cousland," Bryce held up his hand to display his signet ring, "and this is my daughter, Aurora Cousland. We have come from Highever to speak with the Formari about acquiring a mabari for her." _

_ Though the man's eyes were hidden by the visor of his helmet, it was clear from the way he hunched forward that he was studying to make sure Bryce's ring was real. It only took him a few moments to be satisfied as he put together both the fine dress of the two individuals before him, as well as the elegant cut of the ring. He stepped aside and ushered them in. "I will have one of my men escort you to the Tranquil." _

_ The good templar pointed to one of the other visored, armored men bearing Andraste's cross. "Take them to the Formari." _

_ The templar saluted his superior and moved to the second set of double doors that separated the mages from the Tower's reception area. He only opened it when the front doors were shut, and unlike the front doors, the doors to the inner sanctum of the Tower opened without so much as a squeak. _

_ Warm air rushed out to greet them, as did the sound of whispered secrets and page turning. The inner circle of the Tower smelt like old parchment and sulfur; inhaling the air there made both Bryce's and Aurora's teeth tingle. Magic hung thickly in the air, but so did resentment. It was clear enough on the faces of the mages that they passed and the way their eyes would surreptitiously follow the movements of the templars on the outskirts of the room. Both Couslands did not know what it would be like to live in such a place where their every move was watched and judged by people who could do them great harm. It would be like living the Landsmeet every day of the year until one died. _

_ Aurora was very fascinated by the multitude of books they passed. Her eyes roamed along the spines, soaking up the different titles as quickly as she could. There was a wealth of knowledge in the Circle Tower, and so many different books. It would likely take her two lifetimes to read all of them, but that's when she realized that reading was perhaps all the mages could do during their own lifetimes. _

_ The templar took them up three flights of stairs and through identical sets of rooms until he passed off his duties to two templars standing guard on either side of a door. "They're here to see the Tranquil," the templar explained, "and want to purchase a mabari." _

_ The templars guarding the tranquil appeared much more at ease, because one of them made a joke about the templar that had just departed to his fellow, which prompted a snicker. Bryce frowned at them for wasting his time, but the templars moved casually to open the doors for them. _

_None of the Tranquil seemed surprised at the presence of the two newcomers in their midst, but that was likely due to the fact that they had been branded with lyrium and had their emotions stripped from them. There were about five or six in the common room that the Couslands had entered, and each was participating in a fairly mundane task. One was sewing, another was reading, another was arranging books on a shelf, and it seemed a fairly drab existence. They looked between Bryce and Aurora with bright, but emotionless, eyes. _

"_How can the Formari assist you today?" asked an older man with a long, well-trimmed beard. "Are you here for the acquisition of magical supplies and implements?"_

"_No," Bryce shook his head. "I am Bryce Cousland, Teyrn of Highever, and this is my daughter, Aurora. We have come to the Circle to inquire about the mabari you breed." _

"_You are here to purchase a mabari." _

"_For my daughter," Bryce swept his arm around his daughter's shoulders, jostling the rain droplets that lingered on her cloak to the floor. _

_The former mage nodded slowly. "Imprinting may take some time and success is not guaranteed. No mabari may be purchased before imprinting has occurred."_

"_Price is not an issue," explained Bryce, "just the imprinting." _

_Aurora shuffled her feet as her father and the Formari leader spoke. When she heard the cost of the mabari, her eyes nearly popped out of her head. The Chantry had to get a cut of the profits somewhere, as there was absolutely no way possible that they would allow such an outrageous sum to remain in the hands of the mages. What could the mages spend all that money on, anyhow? She did not have much time to dwell on that question, as she found herself being ushered along by her father through more sets of doors towards the barking of dogs and the higher yipping of puppies. _

"_A litter of five mabari was born four months ago. You are fortunate to have come when you did."_

"_Fortunate indeed," Bryce agreed. _

_They were brought into what was the mabari kennel, which was a very long room filled with complex shaped obstacle courses, crates, and small pens. It was well lived in by appearance, and yet was also very tidy. Likely, the Tranquil spent a great deal of time cleaning the room as much as they cared for one of Fereldan's most prized possessions. The mabari were chasing each other around the obstacle course, both adult and puppy taking pleasure from the exercise. Their chasing and playing began to slow as the mabari became aware that there were newcomers in the room. _

_The adults trotted over to them, their small tails wiggling as they sniffed and licked at the hands of the Tranquil who brought them. It was evident who they had imprinted upon. The puppies followed more slowly, their over-sized feet padding cautiously up to the adults. _

"_Why haven't the puppies imprinted on you?" asked Aurora of the Tranquil. _

"_Natural imprinting is an immediate response when a connection is formed between the mabari and its owner. Those mabari that imprint on Formari are used to breed future generations," the Tranquil droned. "Attachment and subsequent imprinting can also form over time. We limit the amount of time we handle mabari young." _

"_Ah." Aurora nodded. "I see." _

"_Follow me, Aurora Cousland," instructed the Tranquil. He led her to one of the pens on the far side of the room and requested that she sit on the floor. He then shut the gate of the pen and fetched the first of the mabari puppies. He placed the barking bundle in the pen and stepped back to observe the interaction. _

_The puppy was very disinterested in Aurora. It was more interested in barking at the latch that kept the gate locked, and pulled itself onto its hind legs to snap at it. Aurora moved onto her hands and knees and tickled the puppy's side to get its attention, but it only growled at her and went back to gnawing on the lock. With a sigh, she flicked her gaze to the Tranquil, then to her father, and shook her head. _

_The Tranquil took the mabari to a second pen and gently placed it inside. He then returned to Aurora with yet another puppy. Unlike the first of the mabari, which had been an all brown with black tipped paws, this puppy was all brown with black ears and paws. This mabari was also not interested in Aurora. As soon as it had been placed on the ground, it settled itself down and went straight to sleep. Adorable as the puppy was with its muzzle and eyes being covered by its paws, Aurora chose to wake it. She gently stroked between the mabari's eyes with a finger, smiling at it when they blinked open. For a moment, she thought she felt a connection, but then the puppy released a terrible odor from its rear end and closed its eyes once more. Sighing deeply, she shook her head. _

_The third puppy was all brown with a black muzzle. It was significantly larger in girth than the previous two puppies, and its fat limbs were waving in the air as the Tranquil brought it over. Once on the ground, the waving turned into waddling, and the puppy waddled its way twice around the gate to the pen before it made a snuffling sound and turned to face Aurora. Its thick pink tongue darted out, swiping across the top of its muzzle before it padded towards her. Aurora sat very still and watched the comical beast approach. When it was an arm's reach away, it stopped and settled itself into a sitting position in front of her. Mabari and Cousland stared at each other for a few moments, watching the other's movements. _

_Aurora leaned forward and watched how the mabari mimicked her movements, dragging itself forward until it was resting on its stomach. "Am I yours?" she whispered, touching her nose to the mabari's. "Are you mine?" _

_The puppy gave a small growl and pushed its tongue out again, dragging it over Aurora's chin. Aurora made a pleased sound in her throat and brought her hands from where they rested between her legs to either side of the mabari's face. "You are a very handsome mabari." The dog wiggled its rear at the compliment. _

"_Is this a male or female?" asked Aurora. _

"_A male."_

"_What should we call you?" Aurora whispered. "I am not very good with names." The mabari puppy did not seem to mind that fact, and closed his eyes as she stroked her fingers over his fur. "You know," the girl smiled, "I will call you Dane. Not after the hero," she explained, "after the battle. It helped win Ferelden's freedom, and there are few symbols of Ferelden that are more recognizable than a mabari." _

_The puppy – now Dane – opened its eyes and tilted its head to one side. _

"_Is that agreeable? May I call you Dane?"_

_Dane barked, which Aurora took to mean that yes, it was agreeable. _

_He then proceeded to vomit in front of her. _

_Aurora looked down in horror, but Dane was wiggling his stumpy tail happily and his tongue was lolling out of his mouth. Her father was cackling with laughter in the background. _

"_I think we've found you your mabari, pup!"_

_Aurora was not so certain, but then it was no longer up to her. Dane had rolled onto his back and was showing his stomach to her. His tail was still wiggling. With a sigh of resignation, she shifted herself around the vomit and peeled off her glove. Gently, so as not to startle Dane, she dragged her fingertips down the puppy's belly. The brown fur was soft to the touch, surprisingly so given the nature and reputation of the breed. One of Dane's back legs kicked into the air, moving faster as she increased the rhythm of her stroking. _

"_You love that," crooned Aurora, "don't you? Don't you? Ohhhh, yes you do, faaaaaat puppppy." Feeling emboldened by their bonding, she leaned over Dane and scooped the puppy into her arms. Dane was heavier than she had anticipated, but was not unmanageable. She held him gently in the circle of her arms and plopped a kiss onto the top of head. Dane's body was limp in her embrace and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. Balancing him carefully, the girl stood and strode to the Tranquil, stepping over the small pen. _

"_I have called him Dane," she declared with a shake of her head, "and he is mine; as I am his."_

_The Tranquil looked between the mabari resting comfortably in Aurora's arms and the protective stance in which Aurora held him. "There is one test you must pass before the mabari is yours," he explained. "I am going to take him from you. If he resists, he has imprinted upon you. If he does not, he has not imprinted upon you."_

"_You had better struggle and fight," instructed Aurora, "because I will struggle and fight for you."_

_The only response was Dane's stomach rumbling. _

_The Tranquil stretched out his arms slowly and wrapped his hands around Dane. He lifted the puppy out of Aurora's arms, and was greeted with a symphony of squealing and growling. The mabari's body contorted this way and that and its limbs flailed in every direction as it protested the separation. Aurora was quick to take Dane back, and at this he instantly settled. _

"_You have passed the test," said the Tranquil. "He has imprinted upon you." _

_When they left the Circle Tower that evening, Aurora's arms were heavier, and Bryce's coin purse was lighter, but both Couslands were wearing matching smiles as they looked down at the bundle of brown and black fur in Aurora's arms. Neither could wait to introduce Dane Cousland to the rest of the family._

* * *

_And that is how Dane and the Warden came to be. :)_

_I have no idea how imprinting with a mabari works, nor do I know anything of how the Formari breed them. I just made an educated guess. _

_Thank you to my wonderful beta, Miss Winde! Without you, that chapter would be, 'the Warden this,' 'the Warden that.' And thank you to the readers, both new and old! _

_Also, with the release of Dragon Age 2 next week, the AU-ness (and probably chapter delays) of Trovommi Amor will increase. But I think you'll still like where the story goes. _


	45. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34 **

With grim and tired faces, the Fereldan Wardens met the First Warden of Weisshaupt.

They were led through the winding streets of Weisshaupt Fortress, ascending each of the many levels of the Grey Warden bastion until they were at last at the top. The top level of Weisshaupt was characterized by its stillness. It was a flat, rocky surface that was decorated with nothing more than walls, archways, and entrances to seven grand tombs that were built into the mountainside. At the edge of the level, on a ledge overlooking the forest and the plains below was a large stone building that rose three stories into the air. Snow was falling from the sky, but refused to stick to the warm stones though it clung lovingly to cloak and eyelash.

The Warden was intrigued by the tombs and felt compelled to examine them. She was pulled towards them, as though a rope had been tied around her ribs and was slowly being coiled back into the stone. Loghain and Dane watched her stalk away from their guide with curious stares. They were tempted to follow, but instead opted to observe her from a distance. Her gauntleted hands came up to touch the first of the tombs, running over the figures and symbols that marked them.

The tombs were magnificently built, and each was sealed by a large stone slab to plug the mouth of a cave that had been carved into the rock. Five of the tombs had stone slabs that were carved; two were blank, save for the coiling designs that had been etched into the stone archways around the caves' mouths as a border. Snow had settled into some of these designs, hiding in the places where the fire crystal had either expired or were not present. For those slabs that were carved, the designs were all the same: a great dragon writhed at the center of the stone, while a great, winged beast with a huge beak and sharp talons stood triumphant over it. Each of the griffons took a different pose: one had its head bowed over the dragon in mourning, another had its wings raised high as it roared in victory, the third of the carvings had a griffon that looked ready to take flight, the fourth tomb had a griffon with its talons shredding the dragon's wings, and the fifth tomb depicted the griffon's great beak snapping the dragon's neck in half.

What truly piqued the Warden's curiosity were the differences in design between the carvings. It became apparent as she strolled along in front of them that they had been made in different ages – the details of the first dragon, though weathered, were made by a different hand than the fifth dragon's. The first dragon looked quite simple when compared to the most recent carving. In fact, the fifth tomb's dragon was splendidly representative of an Archdemon, down to the many fangs that extended over its jaws and the blight-eaten holes in its wings. The griffon was also more robust, and was possessed of a larger break and a broader wing span than its predecessors. The Warden was about to see if the tombs were dated to verify her hypothesis, when she came across something curious: there was a crest on the chest of the fifth tomb's griffon.

Two laurel branches spread out like a pair of wings. Highever's crest.

And it dawned on her then that these were the grand tombs at Weisshaupt for the Grey Wardens who struck the killing blow against the Archdemons. The fourth tomb was Garahel's, all the rest were nameless. Save for the fifth. This was a tomb for a hero; it was _her _tomb. Someone had carved this for her in anticipation of her death.

A cold chill settled its way down her spine, and her grey eye widened in fear as she stared the shadow of death in its gaping maw.

She back-stepped quickly away from it, tripping into Loghain as she did so. He wrapped steadying arms around her midsection, his hand splaying over her armored abdomen, as she stared transfixed at the engraving below the carving:

_Aurora Cousland_

_Warden of Ferelden _

_Died slaying Urthemiel the Archdemon at the Battle of Denerim_

_Dragon Age, 9:30_

_In death, sacrifice_

"It seems they made a mistake," Loghain said quietly into her ear, his warm breath heating her cold-numbed skin.

"Or they know something I do not," she replied, still transfixed at the sight of her 'grave,' "no matter how premature that _something _might be."

Loghain said nothing in response, but instead slipped his hand onto her forearm in a gesture of comfort. He then released her, moving back to their guide who was waiting patiently at the stairs leading up into the rise's only building. With a last look over her shoulder at the carving, she followed him. Dane bumped his head against her legs and wagged his tail, shepherding her away from the cause of her distress. She had the unsettling feeling that she was being watched, but another look over her shoulder only revealed the triumphant stare of the griffon. At an eyebrow raise of curiosity from Loghain, she merely shrugged and flashed him a wan smile.

The building they entered functioned as both the home of the First Warden and the center for Grey Warden command across all of Thedas. At the end of the room, nestled atop a raised platform of thick, blue carpet rested a magnificent chair – no, a throne – made of silverite and ancestral heartwood. It was a brilliant and harsh construction of gleaming grey and silver, with the wood carved to resemble a griffon rearing on its hind legs, and the silverite fashioned into the griffon's grand, sweeping wings. It had no cushion and did not look to be a comfortable seat, and whoever sat upon it would have to take comfort in the magnificent power they wielded to be able to sit on it.

The Warden was spellbound at the sight of the Griffon Throne, but Loghain paid it no mind. Where the Warden saw the chair, Loghain only saw the maps, for there were maps of various shapes and sizes draped artfully around the walls – maps that showed the evolution of the different nations over time. The maps had handwriting and markings all over them, indicating their practical use over the years. The oldest of the maps was a dark and faded piece of parchment that showed the Tevinter Imperium stretching across the vast lands of the world.

Loghain was awed at the sight of them. They were a fascinating collection of history, and as the Warden had pulled away to examine the tombs, so did he to look at the maps. He was drawn to a recent map of Ferelden, matching the exact borders from his memory. The map, which had been laid out against one of the larger walls, also had writing within its confines. Someone had taken a quill and drawn a circle around Ostagar. A similar circle had been drawn around the Korcari Wilds and Lothering. He suspected they were indicators of darkspawn activity, though he did not read or write Orlesian and so could not verify his suspicions against the writing.

The guide coughed at Loghain and barked a quick, "Warden, come along," before pushing open a door. The Warden was quick to step through it, Dane trailing at her heels, and Loghain sullenly followed them, jumping slightly when the door behind him shut closed.

He was surprised to find that he wasn't being led through a corridor. He had been led into a room, one with a single, large window that gave the viewer an eyeful of the forest and the skyline. The window provided enough illumination for the entire room, acting as both an observational tool, as well as a functional one. In the room was a grand desk, though it was worn by age. It was ancient, as indicated by the wear and cut of the wood. Though stained a deep black, the true white color of the wood was revealed by the many nicks and cuts in the desk's top and legs. Many of these cuts looked deliberate. There were also several book cases, more maps, and a curious, three-legged contraption set up by the window.

Sitting behind the desk, though rising to stand as soon as they entered, was the First Warden and Commander of the Grey of the Anderfels. He was a tall man, with shaggy brown hair and a well trimmed beard. He did bear a striking resemblance to Vidar, though he was without the hateful glare and petulant sneer. Perhaps at one point he had borne such looks, but in his middle age he seemed a rather subdued man. He had none of the fiery zeal that Andraste had, and also lacked the cold, calculating drive of Marcus. Yet, that by no means meant he was complacent. There was something stark and severe in his dark eyes.

"I am Warden Morten," he said in greeting, touching his hand to his chest and bowing his head. "And you must be Grey Wardens Aurora Cousland and Loghain Mac Tir."

"We are," the Warden nodded. "And this is Dane," she placed a hand on the Mabari's head. "My war hound."

"Welcome to Weisshaupt, Wardens. Allow me to be the one who extends to you a formal apology." The First Warden closed his eyes and shook his head. "I am so sorry for what happened to you in Val Royeaux. Warden Caron explained to me what occurred, and had I known what my brother was planning, I would never have made the suggestion for you to visit the place. I would have urged you come straight to Weisshaupt." He gave a great sigh and sat down, gesturing for both the Grey Wardens to sit in the plain wooden chairs that rested in front of his desk. "I am aggrieved to think of your troubles, and what you must think of us. My brother was not well when you met him. When he distanced himself from us and then severed his contact with Weisshaupt completely, we feared the worst, and it seems as though our suspicions were validated by his atrocious behavior."

The Warden sat first, settling herself carefully on the edge of her seat. Loghain did the same. Both were mindful of the armor they wore. Dane settled himself on the floor between their chairs, standing straight and tall so he could stare over the desk at the First Warden.

"I accept your apology," the Warden said with a smile, "though perhaps you would indulge me for a few moments?" The Warden would not be so easily placated by a simple apology. The cut along her jaw burned as a painful reminder of just how 'sorry' the First Warden was.

The First Warden raised his eyebrows in curiosity and nodded. "Of course, Warden Cousland. What is it that's on your mind?"

"Well," the Warden licked her lips and gave Loghain a sidelong look, which he returned. "I thought perhaps that we could share our observations with you."

"Observations?" The First Warden didn't look as though he understood what she meant, and he scratched his fingers against his beard. He had seen the look the two foreign Grey Wardens had given each other, and he felt a knot of anticipation tie itself in his stomach.

"Yes." The Warden let her smile droop into a lazy thing. "There is one observation in particular I would like to talk to you about." She gave the First Warden a half-lidded stare as she saw the concern spread across his features. "It concerns your son."

"My son?" The First frowned. "What is it that you have observed about Vidar, other than his obvious distaste for everything except a wench's cups?"

The Warden's ears burned at his comment, and she coughed politely into her hand. "Yes indeed," she murmured, "what have I observed _other _than that?"

"He did not do anything untoward to you?" The First looked to Loghain. "Tell me he did not, Warden Loghain."

"I would not be the one to say if he had," Loghain replied with a small shrug.

"Allow me to just say it plainly," the Warden leaned forward so that her forearm was resting on the edge of the First's deck. "Your son," the Warden said quietly, "was in contact with you while we were in Val Royeaux. You cannot tell me that you were unaware of the dangers in Val Royeaux before they were happening."

"Oh, I was aware, but I did not know that such horrors were extended to _you._" The First lowered his eyes to stare at the desk. "I assumed that my brother's ire was directed solely at me, and so expected only retaliation at myself. It is apparent," he sighed, "that I did not realize the full extent of my brother's madness. I am saddened to know that he went to his death angry with me. It is not right for brothers of both birth and darkspawn blood to fight. It is a plague on the soul. The Maker would not have it."

"Brothers always try to emulate and copy each other," joined Loghain, remembering what Serge had said about a certain First Warden and the Queen of the Anderfels. He smirked inwardly when he saw the First Warden nod his head in agreement before he continued, "They learn from each other. Why, I find it hard to believe that you did not expect your brother to do as you have done. He sought a union with the Empress of Orlais, no doubt to match your union with the Queen of the Anderfels." Both he and the Warden had decided before they came there that morning to give this man no quarter, and to hold him accountable for all of the decisions he had made regarding their fates.

The First steepled his fingers, though his face betrayed nothing of his emotions. "What Queen Ivonne is to the Grey Wardens is not the same as what the Empress of Orlais is to us. Marcus made a calculated decision; I made a mistake in my youth."

"Is that why Vidar is so bitter?" the Warden mused. "He is the product of a 'mistake?' I thought he would be quite a blessing, given the difficulty of conception. It is true that Queen Ivonne has borne no other children, yes?"

"I apologized to you," the First said placidly, "and yet you come here to my home and insult not only my homeland's queen, but also my son. You insinuate nonsense about my Grey Wardens; you do not make yourself my friend, Warden Commander Cousland. I could strip you of your command if I so choose – which I may, should your attitude _not _improve."

Dane growled low in his throat, and was only silenced by the gentle touch of the Warden's hands to his head.

"Since I have been a Grey Warden," the Warden replied in a cold voice, "I have been treated with mistrust. I have been beaten, tortured, and accused of crimes that I have not committed. Where the Grey Wardens have preached brotherhood and victory, I have only felt the stinging stab of defeat and the cold bite of loneliness. Where is your brotherhood in this?" She laid her fingers against the half-healed cut on her jaw. "Where is your brotherhood in threats to have my womb removed? To end my life? Perhaps it is not _my _attitude which should improve, First Warden Morten. Perhaps it is my cold brothers and sisters in the north that should do so?"

"Perhaps," he inclined his head, "perhaps not. While you may have cause to be bitter, others have better cause to be suspicious."

"And yet here you sit with me. Are you not afraid that I will grow a second head? Sprout wings from my back?" The Warden raised her eyebrow in challenge. "Come, First Warden Morten, tell me: how many blood mages must I meet before I am known to be safe? Two? Ten? Fifty?"

"Just Warden Kettil," the First rested his hand atop one of the neat piles of paper on his desk. "And his report was not as damning of your situation as has otherwise been suggested. But since you have just squandered my time with accusations and insinuations, I am now going to take some of yours. You will," he said imperiously, "tell me about Avernus and the potion that you said you drank. Warden Kettil says it has augmented you, and I wish to know how it has."

"How it has _augmented _me?"

"Is there an echo?" the First asked with some amusement. "Yes, that is what I wish to know. The details, Warden Aurora, if you please."

"_Details? _ Do I _look _like a mage?" the Warden asked incredulously, mirroring the same tone and expression that Vidar had used. "If I knew what it had done," she settled back in her chair, "I would tell you. Unfortunately, I am not a mage. My ability to understand the arcane is limited," she lied, "and whatever Avernus waffled on about was lost on me." There had been blood, and lightening, and death, so much death. "Besides, Warden Kettil claims the augmentation, not I. What augments has he observed in me?"

"He says that you have a strong resistance to his magic, and that you heal faster than any other Grey Warden he has met."

The Warden shrugged. "I have noticed no differences since drinking that vile thing. Perhaps what he says is true. Or perhaps I am merely a product of a fortunate birth. Who knows?"

"Did you observe Avernus as he made this potion?"

"Of course not." The Warden chuckled low in her throat. "He was a blood mage; no doubt whatever he used was both demonic and bloody."

"That's a gross simplification of a blood mage's power," chided the First with a frown. The frown deepened when he saw the Warden give a nonchalant shrug and a weak smile. "You must remember more. You found journals, surely"

"Have you never stumbled into the _lair _of a blood mage?" The Warden chuckled, "surely, you know their secrets are better guarded than their treasure. They do not just keep their notes, their most private thoughts _lying _around. Avernus may have been," she made certain to use the past tense (Avernus was still very much alive), "an old man, but he was no fool, and he was a secretive bastard." She heard Loghain's teeth crack as he clenched his jaw at her swearing.

"Eh," Morten sighed and slumped back in his chair, "I suppose even if you did know, you would feel disinclined to tell me, yes?"

The Warden closed her eye and turned her face from Morten's in a refusal to answer his question. She let him gaze upon his reflection in the many pearls of her eye patch.

"And I suppose you," Morten turned bright blue eyes to Loghain, "have nothing to add?"

"Nothing, Warden Morten," Loghain replied in a smooth voice.

Morten narrowed his eyes and muttered something about, "First and their Seconds," before heaving another sigh and shaking his head. "I knew Ferelden would cause us problems. It always has. You are all xenophobic by nature; you hate outsiders and you fear change."

"Outsiders hate us," Loghain corrected, "and try to change _us. _They _always _fail."

"Which is why I have left Ferelden in your care," First Warden Morten shot him a sharp glance. "But the moment you make me regret that, I will change my mind. Do not think I would not strip you both of your ranks and keep you in Weisshaupt to educate you properly in the ways of the Grey Wardens. In Weisshaupt, we _earn _our leather."

"It is no different in Ferelden," Loghain said with an equally fierce glance.

"You could replace us," the Warden added in a mild voice, holding her thoughts tightly in the palm of her hand, "if you wanted, First Warden. But whoever you send to Ferelden will only face what Andraste did. They will have only the loyalty of the Wardens they bring with them. The people will not love you. The Bannorn and the Crown will not love you. They will never tithe to you. They will take your money in trade, and never replenish the treasury. Ferelden protects its own."

"Yes, yes," the First Warden heaved another sigh, "I understand the politics of your country. And I understand the necessity of promoting from the Fereldan ranks. And I will," he continued with glittering eyes, "be the first to admit that you were perhaps the greatest blessing to the Grey Warden cause in Ferelden. You are a name that I can use as a rallying cry. You have claim to titles and a holding that are bound to you by the love of your kinspeople, and I will not have the Grey Wardens lose Ferelden again."

The Warden had to stop herself from sending a smug look Loghain's way, as her earlier prophecy about the Fereldan people coming to the Grey Wardens in her memory was also being recognized by the First Warden. As it was, she merely raised her eyebrows at him, though his own expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

"And speaking of Ferelden," the Warden turned her face back to the First, "I intend to return there as soon as I can. By the week's end, at the latest. I have copies of the Joining ritual, and we do not lack for Archdemon blood in Ferelden. I require nothing of Weisshaupt," and at this, the Warden leaned forward, resting her forearm on the edge of the desk, "save the answer to a single question."

"That would depend," the First replied, "on the question." He rested his hands flat on the desk before him.

The Warden's grey eye was fierce and her tone as sharp as a knife when she spoke the question. "What do you know about _Broodmothers_?"

8-8-8

Several hours later found Loghain, the Warden, and Dane in what passed for the trader's tavern at Weisshaupt. It was the only place they could go to where they felt normal, the irony being that they felt more comfortable with the outsiders than with the other Grey Wardens. The jokes and songs in the non-Grey Warden tavern were not littered with in-jokes or gossip, and they even heard the familiar accent of their homeland spill from the lips of several of the traders. Sitting beside a roaring fire with mugs of warm, smelly ale in their hands, the two Wardens and their dog took the opportunity to speak candidly.

"When I am First Warden," the Warden said, staring into her mug, "I am not coming to Weisshaupt."

"When you are _First _Warden?" Loghain balked. "You have some ambition, girl."

"Why can I not be First Warden?" The Warden frowned, her grey eye troubled.

"You aren't loyal enough," Loghain replied dryly. "Andraste is going to become First Warden because she is slavishly loyal. Were Serge younger, he would be raised after her, because he is slavishly loyal. And not loyal to the Grey Wardens, mind you." Loghain took a drink from his mug, "Loyal to the First Warden."

"That isn't right." The Warden pursed her lips. "Do you think there has ever been a Grey Warden coup?"

"We witnessed one," Loghain's tone was somber, "and it failed."

A pregnant pause fell between them, and the Warden tapped her fingers anxiously against her mug. Her leg jostled up and down, up and down, up and down. "Do you think we were on the wrong side?" she asked at length, grey eye curious and wide as it waited for Loghain's answer.

Loghain shook his head violently. "No. Not after what he planned to do. I would not trade Morten's fanaticism for Marcus's."

The Warden flashed him a half-smile. "Would you trade them for mine?"

"The day you become a fanatic," Loghain shot her a pointed stare, "is the day I put you down. I'll see you create no chaos within Ferelden vying for the title of First Warden, if that's what you're after."

The Warden scoffed and waved her hand dismissively, her pretty face turned into a mask of disdain. "I would never do such a thing. I did not die to keep Ferelden safe, only to throw her into a personal war."

"I am glad to hear you say that." Loghain inhaled deeply, a sigh of relief, before he extolled to her his wisdom. "Too often do men with a desire to be higher than their station drag their countries through war to attain it."

The Warden narrowed her eye; she did not like his words, or his opinion that aspiring to be First Warden was above her station. And so she hurt him, rubbing salt in a wound that they both had thought was long since closed. "As you did, as Regent of Ferelden?"

Loghain prickled, sensing Bryce's blue-blooded opinions in his lover. "I did not desire to have that title, it was thrust upon me. You, on the other hand," Loghain warned, "are grabbing for something that is not even available to you."

"Available to me _yet,_" corrected the Warden sharply. "One day," she vowed, "I will take that chair of out Weisshaupt, and I will sit in it."

"You mean that monstrosity of wood and metal we saw in the First's entry chamber?" Loghain found the chair ghastly and ugly. It was an ostentatious piece of wood, made for a king more than a Grey Warden.

The Warden nodded. "And when I do sit in it, the Grey Wardens will change, and we will _all _be better for it."

"I hope I am dead when that day comes," Loghain drained the rest of his mug, "I do not want to see you ruin yourself over the Grey Wardens, Aurora."

"Ruin myself?" The Warden shook her head. "No. Better myself," she wiggled her eyebrows, "yes."

"Sometimes," Loghain stared at her plaintively, "they are the same thing." But his words fell on deaf ears, because he could already see the Warden had lapsed into some grandiose thought of a blonde, armored figure sitting atop a winged seat of power, her grey eye cold with judgment. Bold and terrible, beautiful but wrathful, Aurora Cousland had become First Warden, and she would sweep across the Grey Warden ranks colder than any mountain wind in Weisshaupt. It unsettled him, because he had seen a similar expression in Cailan's eyes, and in Maric's. He had steered both Maric and Cailan as best he could, but he did not think he had the strength left to steer yet another person. He was getting too old, and with his advancing age was coming a sense of ambivalence that frightened him more than the idea of Aurora Cousland becoming First Warden.

Loghain found himself at a loss what to do. Scolding her would make her defensive, praising her would reaffirm her beliefs, and so Loghain was forced to do nothing. He merely stared at her pale face and the red cut along her jaw. A part of him believed that she would do exactly as she said, and that she would do it better than anyone he had ever known. But another part of him was not as convinced. Loghain resented her sense of entitlement to the position of Warden Commander and First Warden, thinking it stemmed from her privileged upbringing. Entitled men, in Loghain's experience, were often the worst sort of leaders.

"I am going to go for a walk," the Warden said suddenly, placing her mug down on the gnarled side table. She stood with the rattle of armor and the creak of leather. "I will see you back here for dinner."

Loghain nodded his head, grateful for the reprieve but anxious about the parting. "Be safe, Aurora. Keep your sword arm ready." By the tone of her voice and the smile she was giving him, it appeared as though she had either forgotten their spat from a few moments earlier, forgiven him, or was hiding her displeasure as only a woman could.

"You as well, Loghain," the Warden took a look around the room, "I suspect there might be traders from Orlais here. You are in more danger than I."

Loghain rolled his eyes at her bright smile and shooed her away. He watched her sway away from him, her steps light and airy along the rush covered floor. Dane was trotting at her side, his large head angled up to stare at his mistress adoringly. When she had disappeared out the door, Loghain collected her half-empty mug and drained it of its contents, before going to the barkeep and ordering another.

Meanwhile, the Warden and Dane pushed through chilly winds up to the highest level of Weisshaupt fortress. As they went from one level to another, they observed the scenes unfolding around them. In what counted as late afternoon sunlight, many Grey Wardens were out in the streets and in the practice yards. The Grey Wardens training were of particular interest, and the Warden hovered over the edge of one of Weisshaupt's tall walls to stare down at the level below and observe the men and women fighting.

Small groups of five ran drills against wooden and straw statues, darting, weaving, blocking, and defending as a unit. Many of these small units were compromised of two shield bearing Grey Wardens, a mage, an archer, and a dagger carrying Warden, though there was some variation in composition from group to group. Some of the small bands had no mages; others only had one shield bearer, but despite whatever they were lacking, their skill and their unity were not lessened.

After several minutes of watching the skirmishes, Dane and the Warden continued upward, climbing stairs to the high, flat plain of Weisshaupt's final tier. They weaved their way through the archways and walkways that must have, at one point, been covered. But now they lay open to the sky and the snow and afforded one with a view of nothing but cloudy, snowy whiteness. Stepping through one of these arches and into the courtyard of the tombs, the Warden made her way to the fifth tomb.

A siren's song had called the Warden to her would-be grave. The sight of the tomb and its carvings filled her with the same sense of dread on her second visit as it did her first. She might as well have been standing at the edge of one of the griffon aeries above and staring down the long drop to the ground below, so much did her hands shake. She balled them into fists and forced herself to look at the carvings again, forced her eyes to trace the lines of the griffon's beak as it snapped the Archdemon's neck in half.

She remembered very little about her final moments in the battle against the Archdemon. She recalled feeling its immense tail crush her shield arm and the cold, bone-deep shivers of pain it caused her. She also recalled hearing Dane's whimper as the beast tore and clawed at the wreckage of the ballista Dane was taking refuge beneath. She had used one of the ballista's great springs to launch herself into the air, propelling her hands and blade through scale, sinew, and bone. It amazed her that the griffon in the carving was severing the Archdemon's neck, for that is exactly what she had done. It made her wonder if the carving had come first, or the slaying of the Archdemon. It made her feel better to think that the griffon and dragon had been carved as she lay comatose in Denerim.

The hair at the back of the Warden's neck stood on end, and she felt an angry, bitter ripple at the back of her mind. She had drowned out the majority of the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt, distancing herself from their mindless drone as much as she could. But this angry ripple was familiar, and demanded recognition. The ripple also caught the attention of Dane, and he growled loudly at the intruder.

"Spooked, Commander?"

"Amused, actually," the Warden lied, dropping her hand so that Dane could lick at it. "I think they got their dates wrong." She was surprised when she actually heard Vidar laugh. It was a dark chuckle, one that came from low in his throat, but it was laughter nonetheless. "I am glad they did. I enjoy living."

"You can't escape death forever." Vidar stepped close behind the Warden Commander, his toes brushing the edge of her thick cloak. "They'll get you in that tomb yet, mark my words."

"They have to find my body first," the Warden said in a grim voice.

"No need to _find _you. I suspect," Vidar smirked and leaned forward, so that his mouth was by her ear, "that they'll lock you in it before you take your Calling. You'll go mad in there, until you finally starve to death."

"That is better than the alternative," replied the Warden, her back stiffening in proximity to Vidar and the warmth of his breath.

"You know," Vidar drawled, "I was here when they were carving it."

"Were you now?" The Warden raised an eyebrow and turned her head towards him. Vidar might have thought that she could not see him through the eye patch, but she could see him just fine.

"It took them ten days to finish it."

"When did they do it?"

Vidar pursed his lips as he sifted through his memories. The wind tousled his shaggy hair around his face. "After word reached Weisshaupt that the Archdemon had been slain."

The Warden let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "There's a relief. I had feared that the tomb had been carved prior to my slaying of the Archdemon."

"Oh," Vidar smirked, "they did. You wanted to know then they finished it. You never asked when they started it."

The Warden's heart fluttered in her chest and then sunk low into her stomach. Heat crept along the Warden's cheeks and down her limbs. "And when did they start it?"

"Sometime after the slaughter at Ostagar." Vidar licked his lips against the cold wind, turning them bright and red. "They had the crest on the griffon, at least."

"They did?" the Warden allowed herself to raise an eyebrow, refusing to show any other outward expression. "How curious. There were two Grey Wardens. Why choose my sigil?"

"Would assume they thought you would be the one to do it."

"That is extremely premature of them to think that way."

Vidar chuckled. "The other Grey Warden you traveled with was the bastard prince of the dogs, wasn't he? Are you really so surprised why they'd think you'd take the blow instead?"

"Well, we had another Grey Warden with us," the Warden explained, "Riordan. He could have also taken the killing blow. Or Loghain."

"Can't say why they didn't put the nameless rake's sigil on the dragon then." Vidar blew a puff of hot air against her neck and watched the flesh there prickle. "Or the old man's flying snake. Senior Grey Wardens take the killing blow, but there's an order to these things."

Something about Vidar's tone gave the Warden pause. "Are you saying Riordan was not meant to come to Ferelden?"

"Did I say that?" Vidar shook his head. "Don't think I did."

"Well, then what _are _you saying?" The Warden pulled away from him and put her hands on her hips. Dane bared his teeth.

Vidar's smile was indolent. "I'm saying you were the Senior Grey Warden of Ferelden, and you were always meant to kill the Archdemon."

"How did they know I would succeed?"

Vidar began to snicker.

"Vidar," the Warden said crossly, "how did they know I would succeed?"

When Vidar broke into loud laughter, his arms crossing over his midsection and his mossy brown eyes glittering with unshed tears, the Warden knew she had been had.

"You were _lying _to me," she said coolly, watching Vidar stagger to the tomb for balance. "_Why _would you do such a thing?"

It was after a long bout of laughter that Vidar spoke, his voice deep and low on the wind. "Don't you like it when I flatter your vanity? You're so self-absorbed, Commander." His cheeks were bright red from the cold, as was the tip of his nose. The flush made him seem younger, and less like a rabid beast. He looked almost vulnerable spread out against the tomb as he was. Well, as vulnerable as a man encased in heavy brown leather and thick fur padding could be.

"I care not for your games, or your spite," the Warden replied evenly, refusing to rise to his baiting. Men like Vidar wanted to provoke a reaction, and created cruel words and deeds to do so ("Giant spawn" was a taunt she remembered all too well. She recalled "ruthless" and "brutish" too.). They would continue to be cruel if they got what the response they wanted, and the Warden had aspired all her life to be above such men and beat them at their own game. She flicked her grey eye from his face to the tomb, changing the subject away from herself and to Vidar. It would be much harder for Vidar to disrespect himself. "Perhaps one day you will get to make the same sacrifice, if what they say is true, that the Archdemon is not dead because I live. Maybe they'll chisel out my sigil and my name and put the crest of the Anderfels and your name on it instead."

"Not interested in dying a hero," Vidar pushed himself lazily away from the tomb and back onto his feet, circling around the Warden. "Or killing dragons." He swaggered and swayed as he moved.

"Are you interested in leading then? Or should I say, _ruling?_" Out of the corner of her good eye, she saw Vidar stiffen, and she saw that her arrow had hit its mark. "Have you seen your mother lately, Vidar?" By his silence, she assumed he had not. "What about your step-father?"

"No," he growled. "Don't care to, either."

"Who was it that conscripted you into the Grey Wardens?" she asked, following his footsteps in the snow as he turned away from her. "Who plucked you from your home, Vidar?"

"Ask me no questions," he muttered, darting away between the pillars, "and I'll tell you no tales."

"Then tell me a tale," the Warden persisted. She stalked after him, the game demanding that she receive answers. Chasing Vidar away meant showing interest in him. To ignore Vidar completely was to always be on the receiving end of his maliciousness. "Because I want to know." She rounded a pillar and captured Vidar's fluttering cloak. Dane blocked the tracker's path with his bulk, and as Vidar back peddled away, the tension on his cloak caused him to slip backwards to the floor. The Warden stared down at him, her hands on her hips once more.

"Frost take you, wench," Vidar stood up in an eye's blink and brushed the snow off his clothes. "Leave me alone."

Amusement colored the Warden's features. "It is all right for you to bother me, but I do not get to return the favor?" She _tsked. _"Fair is fair, Vidar."

Vidar glowered at her.

"One day," the Warden said with a crooked smile, "you will tell me what happened."

"Yeah," Vidar pulled his cloak tight around his leathers, "we'll see about that." He stalked away to the level's only building, his head bowed low against the wind.

"We most certainly shall!" the Warden called out after him, watching him stalk away to the safety of the First's home. She thought she saw the outline of the Griffon Throne in the shadows when he flung open the doors, but it might have been a trick of the light or her imagination. When Dane bumped his head against her leg, the Warden ran the tips of her fingers in lazy circles around his ears. "I pity him," she said to the Mabari, who waggled his tail in agreement. "I pity all of these Grey Wardens," she continued, though in a voice so quiet it was almost lost to the whistling of the wind.

The Warden and Dane did not linger for much longer on that level. They were there but for a few minutes more as the Warden indulged herself in staring at her tomb again. Never would she forget the sight of the carvings and her name engraved below them. Those memories would be with her until the moment she died, and they would probably survive even beyond it. Her lifeless body, dashed upon the rocks below Highever's cliffs, would always recall the sinuous dragon's neck being snapped in half by a powerful griffon's beak, and the laurel leaf crest emblazoned on the griffon's chest.

Pushing these thoughts aside, the Warden made her way back down to the lower levels of the fortress. With Dane nipping at her heels, the Warden skipped down the winding staircases cut from living stone and tilted her head in greeting at the wary Grey Wardens she passed along the way. Some tilted their head back in response, others just scuttled as quickly away from her as they could. Others just ignored her entirely, their heads bent and their eyes fixed to the floor.

Returning to the tavern, the Warden was surprised to find that Loghain had, apparently, made a friend. Dane bounded to Loghain's side and rested his head on his lap, which caused Loghain to slowly raise his head and meet the one eyed gaze of curiosity the Warden leveled at him. He raised a gauntlet and beckoned the Warden closer, indicating that she take a seat across from him, next to the slender elven woman.

"Aurora," Loghain said, "this is Fiona of Weisshaupt."

Fiona of Weisshaupt had sort cropped hair the color of ash and luminous brown eyes. She was possessed of a lovely face, but there was a hard edge to the features that spoke of a hard life and much sorrow.

The Warden extended her hand to Fiona, who took her gauntlet in her slender, uncovered hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Fiona," she said with a smile. She thought the elf's name was familiar, but she could not place where she knew her from.

"Yes, and you," the elf said in a curt tone. "I was actually just leaving. I have," she finished crisply, "gotten what I need from Warden Loghain."

"Oh, _have_ you?" asked the Warden, sotto voce.

"Yes." She stood and smoothed down the long woolen dress she wore. "I bid you both a safe journey back to Ferelden."

The Warden raised her eyebrow when Fiona had disappeared out of the tavern. "Who was that?"

"A Grey Warden I met a long time ago," Loghain said evenly.

"What did she want from you?"

Loghain chuckled. "She wanted me to carry a message."

The Warden leaned forward. "To who?"

He scowled. "You're awfully nosy."

"I want to know," the Warden persisted. The firelight cast long shadows on her face.

"It doesn't matter," Loghain said dismissively. "I'm not going to carry it. I'm not some damned messenger for the Grey Wardens. She can write a letter, as far as I'm concerned."

"Who was the message for?"

"Some friend of hers in Denerim." Loghain gave a large shrug.

"Ah." The Warden drummed her fingers on the wood of the chair's arm. "Well, we'll be in Denerim sooner or later. Perhaps you'll change your mind."

"I doubt it," Loghain groused. "And it wouldn't be a day too late before I went back to that squawking circus of a city."

"You don't like Denerim?" the Warden chuckled. "It is Ferelden's capital!"

"It is a prince's playground, is what it has become." Loghain's face soured. "Any work that gets done in Ferelden occurs in either Redcliffe, Gwaren, or Highever."

"Come now," the Warden reached out a hand and placed it on Loghain's knee, "surely the Landsmeet decides a few matters?"

"Party fees and tournament expenditures." Loghain scoffed. "That's hardly worth anyone's time. The real decisions are made out of the caucus."

"Well," the Warden crooked her finger at Dane and beckoned him over, "perhaps we can have the deals made in Amaranthine. That way, you won't have to travel so far."

"Oh no," Loghain shook his head, sending a dark braid over his shoulder, "you're the Arlessa now, girl. They're your decisions to make and live with. I'm only here to make sure you don't…" he looked pained to say it, "jeopardize the interest of the Grey Wardens. And to replace you, if you do something foolish and get yourself killed."

The Warden winked her grey eye. "Never you fear, Loghain. I will endeavor to live, if only to save you the pain of politics again."

"Thank you." Loghain's blue eyes took in the sight of the Warden's rosy features. "So, where did you wander off to?"

"I just took a walk around Weisshaupt," the Warden replied, her fingers tickling the fur between Dane's eyes. "I watched how the Grey Wardens trained. It is quite interesting. They fight in small units, rather than on their own against practice dummies."

Loghain hummed in thought when he heard her observation. "That's one way to do things, I suppose."

"Perhaps we should try it when we return to Amaranthine?" suggested the Warden with a quirk of her head, "it may bring us closer to our newly recruited Grey Wardens."

"Maybe," Loghain rubbed his lips together in thought. "As I recall, Cauthrien used to do similar training exercises with the men under her command. I suspect," he said in a smug voice, "that you already knew that, though."

Mention of Cauthrien brought up bitter memories of defeat from rescuing Loghain's daughter Anora. "True enough," the Warden replied in a silky tone. She flashed a wide, white smile at Loghain, "let us see if she can turn our Grey Wardens into a unified fighting force."

Loghain detected a hint of challenge in the Warden's voice, as though she was laying the trap for some explosive argument. He chose not to step on it. "She would be only too happy for the opportunity, I suspect. She does not like being left without something to do." Loghain recalled a steel-eyed Cauthrien asking him for workloads that other men in his command could not handle. Cauthrien devoted herself to a cause utterly, and spent even her free time working to protect and serve the realm.

"If she's really good," the Warden mused, "perhaps she should join us."

Loghain furrowed his brow, the edges of his eyebrows touching. "Is that really necessary?" Loghain's gut did somersaults whenever he thought of the Grey Wardens claiming _yet _another young woman.

"It is not." The Warden had no true intention of letting Cauthrien join the Grey Wardens; not while Loghain was still nearby. The last thing she needed was to give a woman who loved Loghain with all her heart yet another link to him. No, so long as Loghain lived, Cauthrien would not become a Grey Warden. And if it was convenient after he died, then so be it. But until that time, she would continue to let the threat of conscription hang over Cauthrien's head. From Loghain's tone, she knew that he did not like the idea of Cauthrien tying herself to the Grey Wardens. Thus, if Cauthrien came to ask her for the Joining, the Warden had good grounds to deny her. She trusted Loghain, but she did not trust Cauthrien, and so she would take no chances where the former was concerned. She had the power to protect her interests, and she would wield that power as both sword and shield. "Yet."

Loghain sighed and shook his head. He slumped back in his seat, armor and all.

"Who knows what the future holds?" she added softly afterwards. "I do not. If I had…" she echoed his sigh. "What a pair we make, Loghain."

"Indeed."

"Do you want to get an early dinner?" she asked with a wry smile. "My walk has made me hungry."

"I find my appetite lacking," Loghain replied, "but you know that I will follow wherever you lead, Aurora."

The Warden only shook her head and waved her hand. "We'll eat when you're hungry, Loghain. I can wait a few hours more."

Loghain only nodded his head and stared absently at the fire.

When it was that Loghain did become hungry, most of the Grey Wardens had already retired to their beds for the night. He and the Warden ate in relative silence, sharing only bashful, tired smiles with one another. Their knees touched below the table they sat at, and Loghain habitually dropped his hand beneath the wood and rested his palm over the Warden's knee. When he did this, her shy smile would give way to one of pleased embarrassment, and she would duck her head to hide the blush on her cheeks. Loghain thought it charming in the quiet hour of the night. There was something oddly intimate about seeing his fierce Warden Commander do something so girlish as to shy away from him.

They went to their separate beds not long after their dinner, and spent the night dreaming of the Ferelden they had known before the Blight. There was a tender ache in both of their breasts for their homeland, and one that only intensified as the days of the week gave way. They received no summons from the First Warden, and so gathered their supplies to leave in peace. It was only during their last night in Weisshaupt as they were packing their saddlebags did the First personally come to visit them. He presented the Warden with a small vial on a chain, and he placed this around her neck.

"Every Warden Commander," he instructed, "should carry one of these. It is the Joining ritual. You need give only one sip of this to someone, and you will make him a Grey Warden."

"Will it not lose its potency?" asked the Warden as she turned the small vial with its purple liquid from side to side in front of her face.

"It has been enchanted," the First explained. "It is Joining enough for only one. The spell can sustain no more than that."

"Ah." The Warden tucked the small vial below her breastplate. "Thank you, First Warden."

The First Warden merely inclined his head. "What path will you take to Ferelden?"

"We will ride to Tevinter," the Warden said, "and take a ship from Minrathous to Ferelden."

"Ah," the First nodded appreciatively, "that is a good route to take. And," he smiled, "fortuitous. Might I ask a boon of you, Warden Commander?"

"That depends on the boon," she replied with a wary tone. "What would you have of us?"

"I would like you to investigate the Deep Roads outside of Kirkwall."

"Could not," Loghain interrupted, "the Grey Wardens in Tantervale handle that? They are much closer than we are." He disregarded the Warden's surprised look about his knowledge of Grey Warden outposts.

"The Wardens of Tantervale are currently busy helping their brothers and sisters clear out an infestation of darkspawn in Nevarra. But that is irrelevant. I would send a single Grey Warden to do it," the First looked between the two Fereldans, "but as you travel together, I would send both of you."

"What is occurring in the Deep Roads of Kirkwall?" The Warden asked.

"The last Grey Wardens who ventured into the Deep Roads from Kirkwall found a most curious location. They went as deep as any Grey Warden dared, into territory that was untouched by the darkspawn. I received letters of their findings, thus I know they made it out alive. However, when I summoned them to report in, they never arrived. I fear they perished somewhere on the road." The First flicked his eyes to the ceiling overhead. "I am curious to know more about this place."

Loghain snorted. "What sort of place in the Deep Roads is untainted by darkspawn?"

"An ancient place," the First replied airily.

"How long do you anticipate this detour would take?" The Warden felt the weight of her coin purse. They had not had to buy supplies in Weisshaupt, but their time in Orlais had not been inexpensive. "I suspect we barely have enough coin to get us and the horses back to Ferelden, let alone spend our time in Kirkwall."

"I will absorb the cost of your time in Kirkwall," the First said with a wave of his hand. "You will have gold tomorrow morning. As well as the map that the Grey Wardens who found it drew."

"Fair enough then." The Warden looked at Loghain, who did not appear happy at her decision. "We will examine the Kirkwall Deep Roads and tell you what we find."

The First let out a sigh of relief. "You have my thanks, Warden Aurora. You do the Fereldan Grey Wardens credit."

When the First Warden left them, Loghain shook his head and gave the Warden an irritated glance. "Sometimes I wonder if you're intentionally sabotaging our return to Ferelden."

"Sabotaging?" The Warden looked offended. "Not at all. There might be something about this location that repels darkspawn, and if there is…" she smiled, "I intend to use it."

"It might also be a trap." Loghain crossed his arms over his chest. "A convenient excuse to replace us."

"I will not be killed so easily." The Warden gave a shake of her head, letting the lion's mane of curls she wore tumble about. "And neither will you."

Loghain grunted and turned his attention to Dane, who had been waiting patiently for attention at his feet. "I bet you don't want to go to into the Deep Roads, do you?"

Dane barked and wagged his tail, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

"He isn't agreeing with you," drawled the Warden, leaning towards Loghain. "He merely wants a belly rub."

At the words "belly rub," Dane was immediately on his back, his legs curled in the air.

Wincing as he dropped to a knee, Loghain let his fingers tickle Dane's stomach. "You'd go into the Deep Roads for a belly rub, would you, Dane?"

Dane grunted something low in his chest.

"He would go anywhere you asked him to," the Warden said, standing above them both. "That is the loyalty of a Mabari."

Loghain turned his face up to look at the Warden. "Is that supposed to be a message directed at me, Madam?"

The Warden only chuckled and shook her head. She dragged her fingertips over Loghain's nose and up his forehead, feeling the lines from his scowl gently. She traced his braids with soft touches and then let her fingers wander into the thick forest of his black hair. Loghain closed his eyes at her touch, tilting his head back as she threaded her fingers through his hair. She let the silky tresses slip through her fingertips, pausing only when something caught her by surprise. There, nestled amidst the dark strands, she found but a single sliver of silver.

* * *

_I lied. I said the story was on hiatus until I had finished _Worth _and my BiowareBang challenge, but I love this story far too much to let it linger. And so I bring you Chapter 34. __Hopefully, I haven't lost most of you in the long space between updates. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes? __We would have extended the chapter to Kirkwall, but in the interests of keeping, well, reader interest, we'll see Kirkwall and the Deep Roads in Chapter 35. We'll also see Carver Hawke and his sister, Marcelle Hawke the soon-to-be Champion of Kirkwall._

_This chapter was written/edited mostly to _Heavy Metal Lover _by _Lady GaGa. _The lyrics: _"I could be your girl - girl - girl - girl - girl - girl / but would you love me if I ruled the world - world - world" _seem especially appropriate for our Warden Commander. _

_For the _Trovommi Amor _readers who are interested, _Worth _takes place within _Trovommi Amor's _canon, about a decade onward from this chapter. Beyond just some of the cast from Dragon Age 2, you'll also see the Warden, Nathaniel, Sigrun, Oghren, Varel, Cauthrien, Alistair, Teagan, Fergus, and a variety of others. Though I do warn you that if you go to read it, there are spoilers for _Trovommi Amor. _ After all, the future is the future._

_And of course: thank you to everyone who sent me PMs poking me about updating, and those of you who have taken the time to read and review. Your interest means the world to me!_


	46. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

From Minrathous they took the boat to Kirkwall. The Warden had feared Qunari and storms would slow them down, but the journey had been quiet and rather uneventful. The only commotion they'd had was when one of the sailors was swept overboard during a short squall, but he had been retrieved by the quick thinking of one of the Tevinter mages that was aboard. Neither of the Grey Wardens nor Dane was even roused from their sleep when they'd arrived at the Kirkwall port, and it was nearly nightfall when both of them realized that they could hear the cries of gulls.

Making their way from the merchant's ship, the two Wardens looked to find some shelter for the night. Though they had maps to the Deep Roads, they could not wander in blindly. They had provisions to buy, as well as a route to plan. If what the First said was true, and that there was a surprising lack of Darkspawn in the tunnels, it likely meant that something foul was a foot.

"It feels just like being back in Ferelden," whispered the Warden to Loghain as they rode through the busy streets of Lowtown, Dane trotting behind them happily. "Look at all the brown hair and grim faces!"

Loghain shook his head, both amused and unamused at the Warden's comment. "What does that make you?"

"An Orlesian tart," she replied back with a wink of her good eye. "I 'av zee accent to prove eet."

"Maker's breath," Loghain nudged his horse into a faster pace, "I am leaving you behind. Dane, to me."

The Warden only chuckled and watched him clip ahead with Dane chasing after him. The sea of people in Lowtown parted around their horses. Clearly, horses were not a common sight in these parts or if they were, they were not seen walking around and looking positively delicious. They had come to this part of Kirkwall to stay low and avoid as much notice as they could, though it seemed that would be nearly impossible given the staring. The Warden was certain that the staring was because of the horses, and not because she was _the _Hero of Ferelden, and riding in front of her was _the _Hero of River Dane.

"Perhaps," the Warden said as she sidled up to Loghain once more, "I was mistaken in my assumption we could find lodging in this part of the city and not look out of place." They were having their conversation outside of a tavern called the _Hanged Man_, complete with a mock-up replica of a sailor hanging upside down by his ankles swinging from the signpost. "Besides, where we would keep our horses? There are no stables here." The Warden gestured to the lack of a stable around the building, "and we'd likely lose our horses if we kept them tethered in the street. They could be stolen, or worse, eaten."

"Do we even have the coin for something better?" asked Loghain with a sly glance at the darkening alleyways and scurrying figures around them. "You have the money purse, not I. If you think we can afford better rooms in Hightown, I'll not argue. It is your money to spend." Though he was still seated astride his horse, he placed his hand on his sword belt for good measure.

The Warden's tongue darted out as she licked her lips. "If Hightown is anything like Highever or Denerim… we'd have enough for supplies and a room for a night or two, even with the First's coin. We would not be able to tarry long…but we can't take our horses into the Deep Roads. We would need to find a stable that would care for them, and that will be expensive…" She sighed. "Be robbed by thieves, or be robbed by merchants. I think we'd be better off forgoing comfortable beds and the privacy of our own room for some of the Maker's succor. We can spend the night in the Chantry, and spend what's left of our coin on goods we'll need for the Deep Roads, a home for the horses, and our return trip to Amaranthine."

"Does the Chantry take kindly to Grey Warden lodgers?"

"The Chantry _will _take kindly to me," she flashed him a smile. "Could you say no to this face?" She widened her grey eye, furrowed her brow, and puckered her pink lips into a rosebud of worry. "I am so cold and lonely."

Loghain did feel the sudden need to take her in his arms and drop a consoling kiss on her forehead, though the sentiment passed quickly. He cast his eyes down to Dane, and found that he was wearing a similar expression. Loghain snorted. "Which one of you taught that face to the other?"

"I shall never tell." The mask of youthful concern fell away with a quick wink and a crooked smile. "Let's see what Hightown has in store for us."

To neither Grey Wardens' surprise, they found the prices for stabling the horses in Hightown ridiculously high.

"You could feed an entire Fereldan family on that amount of coin for a month!" argued the Warden, clutching her coin purse defensively against her chest. Loghain put his hands on his heavily armored hips for good measure, and Dane growled for emphasis.

"Yeah," replied the stable-master of the _Blue Winter_ _Inn_, "and they'll eat just as much too. Ye give me the sovereigns, and I'll take care of yer horses for ye, no questions asked about why yer leaving them here."

"Why else would Grey Wardens leave their horses behind?" asked the Warden as she flaunted their position, "we are going into the Deep Roads."

The stable-master narrowed his eyes. "And who did ye say ye were again? I didn't quite catch yer names, my Grey Warden friends."

"I am Warden Aurora," the Warden said after some length, "and this is Warden Loghain." She gestured to Dane. "This is my mabari, Dane."

The stable-master looked between the two of them. "Aurora and Loghain. Only one Grey Warden I've ever heard of who runs around with a mabari war hound. Word travels fast."

"I am not sure I follow," replied the Warden warily.

"_Hero of Ferelden._And River Dane too," the stable-master pointed a long finger at Loghain. "We typically don't like Fereldans in these parts."

"I imagine you must get a lot of business with that attitude," said Loghain with a disdainful curl of his lip.

"Oh, there's no shortage of Fereldans, just a shortage of ones with coin," explained the stable-master. "They don't do business because they can't afford it."

Loghain's nostrils flared and he narrowed his eyes. The Warden's expression was frighteningly neutral in comparison, though from the way her fingers tightened around the coin purse, it was clear that she was echoing Loghain's disdain.

"We are going elsewhere," Loghain said after giving the man a long, hard stare down the curve of his nose.

"You won't find a better stable anywhere."

"I would rather eat my horse in the Deep Roads than leave it with you, ser," replied Loghain coldly, and giving the man another glower he turned towards where he had tied the horses. Brake and Gharin whickered at him in the twilight, and Gharin's fleshy mouth gnawed at Loghain's gauntlet as he worked to untie the reins. The Warden was soon at his side collecting Brake.

"If worse comes to worse," she said quietly, "We can sell Brake, and use the coin to find a proper place for Gharin. Brake is just a palfrey I've borrowed; I know Gharin is important to you."

"Let's cross that bridge when we get there, shall we?" Loghain flicked his blue eyes to her, and gave her a tight smile. "Besides, it would not feel right leaving behind a fine comrade like Brake."

"I am sure," the Warden scratched Brake's cheek gently, "that he appreciates the sentiment. But there's always plenty of work to be had for a steadfast horse like Brake. I am sure we could find someone who would treat him well." With a sigh, the Warden cast her glance towards the direction of the Chantry, its spires rising high above the city of Kirkwall. "I don't suppose the Chantry will have board for them too, will they?"

Loghain could only shrug. He didn't have the faintest idea what the Kirkwall Chantry was equipped with.

They made their way silently through the darkened streets. The guards were out on patrol, their orange-stained jerkins highlighting them in the gloom. The grounds of the Chantry were well lit, and much to both Loghain and the Warden's relief, there appeared to be an alcove used for stabling the horses of couriers and missionaries. It was currently empty, but the smell of hay as the Warden neared was enough to confirm that at least for one night, Brake and Gharin would rest easily. The two Grey Wardens tethered their horses in the stable and hauled over a trough of feed and water for them. Wiping their gauntlets of dirt and grime, they steeled themselves for rejection by the Chantry's sisters.

As they ascended the many stairs towards the Chantry's entrance, they passed statues of Andraste in glorious repose; her beautiful face, eyes closed, was turned upwards to the sky and her hands were spread high above her head. Whether by magic or by the diligent work of some lay sister, flames were dancing along Andraste's hands. The Warden ignored the statues as she passed, but Loghain could not help but crane his neck to look up at them and notice the eerie resemblance between the Maker's Bride and the reluctant Grey Warden Commander in front of him. Andraste, and his Commander, had both been elevated to a station beyond the capacity of their years, and he could only hope that his Commander did not burn for it as the beloved Prophet had.

Loghain followed Dane and the Warden through the space she had pushed in the Chantry's double doors. He felt the curious stares of the templars standing on either side of the door on his back, and Loghain shot one an irritated stare: they had to just _stand _there; couldn't they open the damn door? But whatever effect his glower had on the man was lost beneath the man's heavy armor and helmet.

The interior of the Chantry was not as well lit as its exterior. With no services or penitent sinners present at twilight, many of the candles had been left to dwindle and die. Sisters and their superiors could be seen flitting on the balconies high above them, appearing as no more than shadowy, blood-stained wraiths in their grey robes and red belts. Incense and spice hung heavily in the air, strong enough to make both Grey Wardens' eyes water and noses itch.

A woman with short cropped blonde hair and elegant cheek bones glided down the center of the Chantry proper to greet them. Her hands were folded outwards in welcome, and she wore the serene smile of the Maker's Bride as easily as though it were her own.

"Welcome, sojourners," she said in a throaty voice, "have you come to tithe or pay homage this evening to Our Lady Andraste and the Maker?"

The Warden raised her eyebrow at such a direct request for coin. "We have come to pray, yes," she lied. "We have just arrived in Kirkwall, and thought it best to pay our respects."

The woman, likely a full-fledged sister, seemed pleased by the Warden's words. "You are devout sojourners indeed."

The Warden only flashed a shy smile in response, doing her best to appear as humble and meek as she could. She stood many inches above the sister, however, and that made such a thing difficult.

"I am Sister Petrice," said the woman who had greeted them, placing a grey gloved hand to her chest. "And if you have need of _anything _while you are here, please do not hesitate to call upon me."

"Thank you," the Warden tilted her head in acknowledgement, "Sister Petrice." When Sister Petrice had moved aside to let them pass, she shot a wide-eyed look of uncertainty to Loghain, who only rolled his eyes.

Sister Petrice gave a small sound of disapproval when she noticed they had a dog in their midst, but said nothing as the Warden turned to look at her over the edge of a pauldron, letting her covered eye lead the way.

The two Grey Wardens took a kneeling position in front of one the great stone platform in the center of the room. In the hushed confessions and murmuring whispers of the Chantry, the Warden risked a quiet, "they should let us stay here if he we pray long enough."

Loghain said nothing, knowing that if he did it would only be a biting comment about not wanting to spend the next several hours on his knees because they ached. He grit his teeth and let out a small exhale of breath, which did not go unnoticed by the Warden. She shifted closer to him, nestling her lower body next to his hip in such a way that she would bear the burden of his weight. Their tassets scraped against each other as she wiggled to position herself, which earned them the curious stare of several of the sisters. Dane nestled himself on Loghain's other side, mimicking the Warden in his actions.

An hour passed, maybe more, before the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall descended the stairs to meet them, the tell-tale sign of her position glinting like golden fire from the center of her sash. Loghain had, by that time, fallen asleep. The humming of the Chantry and the heady incense had made him drowsy to the point of stupor, and resting heavily against a still awake and frowning Warden, he slept in the protection of her outstretched arms. The Grand Cleric moved to stand in front of them, a wry smile on her face when she noticed the way Loghain's head hung still and unmoving.

"I think," the Warden whispered to her, lifting her face to the Grand Cleric's, "that you've put something in the incense. I've never seen him fall asleep so quickly before."

"If there is any place to find peace," replied the Grand Cleric kindly, "it would be in the watchful presence of the Maker and his Bride."

The Warden nodded and bowed her head once more.

"From the symbols on your armor, I can see you are a Grey Warden." She smiled again. "We do not often see your Order here, unless they are looking for a place to lay their heads."

The Warden groaned inwardly and felt as transparent as glass under the older woman's gaze. "Such a place would be nice," the Warden admitted, "but...I have not spoken with the Maker in a long time. He and I have much…to talk of." She hoped she sounded suitably contrite and earnest. Truthfully, she _had _been using the time in the Chantry to speak with the Maker and discuss with him the finer points of her life. The specifics of which she was not willing to share with anyone. Not even the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall.

"Come," said the Grand Cleric, "rouse your friend, and let us find him a proper place to rest. And," she chuckled, "you too, by the looks of things, young lady."

"Your Grace is most kind," the Warden murmured. Gently, she shook Loghain awake. "Loghain," she whispered in his ear, "I need you to stand."

Loghain was unusually slow to wake and peered between the Warden and the Grand Cleric with bleary eyes. "Are we being thrown out?"

"No," the Warden shook her head, "I am taking you to bed."

Loghain only grunted as he struggled to his feet, wincing at the cramps in his thighs and the ache in his knees.

"Might I know," asked the Grand Cleric, "who will be staying here tonight?"

"I am Aurora Cousland, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden. This is Loghain Mac Tir, my Second." She gave a gesture of her head to the mabari, "And this is Dane, my mabari."

"Not just Grey Wardens," the Grand Cleric chuckled, "but _esteemed _Grey Wardens, too. Greetings to you both; I am Elthina, Grand Cleric of Kirkwall." She extended her hand to the stairway she had come down. "And you are both welcome to rest here for as long as you need. Please, follow me."

Loghain stumbled after the Grand Cleric, while the Warden kept a more respectful distance behind. Dane trotted at Loghain's heels, nudging him with his head to keep him on course. The Warden was also beginning to feel the heady effects of the incense, as the edges of her vision were blurring.

Grand Cleric Elthina led them to a small room on the second floor of the Chantry. She stood beside the door, one grey gloved hand resting lightly on the wood. "I give you my apologies in advance, but we do not have much space available. This dormitory is reserved for our Brothers, however, we only have one in residence and he will not mind sharing. Sebastian is a good lad." She turned to the door and gave a soft knock. "Sebastian?"

A few moments later the door gently drew open and a strikingly handsome man stood before the Grand Cleric. Any reservations the Warden had about sharing the room vanished at the first sight of his bright, blue eyes.

"Your Grace?" asked Sebastian, face earnest as he regarded the Grand Cleric.

"We have guests for the evening," the Grand Cleric explained. "Warden Aurora and Warden Loghain. They will be using the spare beds in the dormitory."

"Of course, Your Grace," Sebastian smiled kindly at the Grand Cleric, and then turned his radiant face to the two Grey Wardens. "You are both welcome; come in, come in."

The Warden flashed him a smile of her own and gently pushed Loghain in front of her. "Thank you again, Your Grace," she addressed Elthina as she moved to enter the room herself.

The Grand Cleric only gave a serene smile before gliding away.

Sebastian pulled the door shut behind the Warden as she entered.

The room was lit by a few candles, and there were long shadows cast along the edges of the room. Sebastian's bed was neatly made, though the sheets were ruffled from where he had been sitting on it. On his bed lay an open, dog-eared copy of the Chant.

"I am sorry if we are interrupting," apologized the Warden, gesturing to his effects. Behind her, Loghain was settled on one of the bunks and was busy unstrapping his pieces of armor. Dane was at his feet, staring between the bed and his face.

"Think nothing of it." Sebastian gave a good natured chuckle, and his brogue became particularly evident. "I am partial to the Canticle of Trials, though even I will admit that sometimes the eyes do need a rest."

The Warden only nodded and turned to Loghain. She touched his shoulder gently, "I will go get our saddlebags."

Loghain grunted his assent and watched as the Warden slipped out of the room and into the darkness of the Chantry proper. He continued unlatching his armor, the only sound in the room being the scrape of the metal against the sheets of the bed and the rustling of pages being turned by Brother Sebastian. He had just gotten started on his greaves when the Warden returned, each of her arms burdened by their bags.

"I would polish your armor in the morning," she said quietly, dropping his saddlebag on the floor beside his bed, and her own saddlebag on her bed. "You look exhausted."

"I shouldn't," Loghain grumbled, "since I slept through most of the voyage. Something that they've put in the air…"

"Spindleweed," Sebastian said from his bed. He looked amused. "There is spindleweed in the incense. Not more than two months ago, Kirkwall suffered from a terrible case of gallow's cough. We started burning spindleweed to not only protect those of us who serve the Maker, but also those who came to pray or seek healing."

"That would do it," said the Warden, sharing in his amusement. "The soporific quality takes some getting used to." She knelt in front of Loghain and began to slip off the armor plating of his boots. When both metal and leather were pulled free from his feet, Loghain rolled onto the bed. The Warden was still chuckling as she gathered the various armor pieces and placed them carefully against the wall opposite the bed. "I have discovered your secret weakness, Loghain," she teased.

Loghain only grunted something and threw his arm over his eyes, ending the discussion. Dane took that as his cue to scramble on the bed beside Loghain. He rested in the space where Loghain's otherwise occupied arm would have been, and rested his large head on his paws. With small, panting sounds of pleasure and a few wags of his tail, Dane joined Loghain in sleep.

Seeing the two of them curled upon the bed brought a fond smile to the Warden's features. She chuckled and shook her head before working to divest herself of her own armor. She shot Sebastian a glance over her shoulder to see if he was watching, but Sebastian was absorbed in his reading and paid her no mind. Feeling suitably secure, she rid herself of her pauldrons and tasset, then her breastplate, and then with a great sigh she leaned forward and began to unbuckle her greaves.

Her armor and padding she placed on the wall beside Loghain's armor. She turned to her saddlebag and rummaged through it. Her fingers closed around the handle of her hair brush, and she immediately plucked it out. A tremor of excitement ran through her at the idea of being able to brush her hair in relative peace and quiet. She wouldn't have to worry about tar, or ropes, or being _stared _at…

The leather band that held her hair in its braid was resting on the bed beside her knee, and she was soon running her fingers through her curls. They were stiff and salty from the sea, and her scalp was greasy and dirty, but the feel of the brush's hard bristles through her curls was _glorious. _She spent several minutes dragging the brush along her scalp, slicing through stubborn knots and twisted curls until her hair was thick and glossy in the candlelight.

And then, as though it were some dirty secret, some sin, she tied it up again. The braid felt like a shackle, but she wore it with quiet dignity like so many others before her.

She rubbed her eyes wearily, the scent of spindleweed having finally gotten to her. She was on the verge of joining Loghain in sleep when Sebastian, only one bed over, spoke.

"Do I know you from somewhere, Warden?"

The Warden turned a quizzical gaze to Sebastian, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed and resting his elbows on his knees. "I think," the Warden said with a grin, "that I would remember you, if we had met before."

Sebastian's eyebrows rose and he bobbed his head in embarrassed acknowledgement. "Have you…ever been to Starkhaven?"

The Warden rested her hands behind her and leaned back on them. "I was in Starkhaven but a few years ago. My…mother brought me there. We attended the wedding of one of the Vael sons. The middle one, if I recall."

Sebastian snapped his finger. "So I _have _seen you. I thought I recognized you."

"Oh," the Warden chuckled, "you clearly have me at a disadvantage then."

"We never met, but I did see you."

"How unfortunate," the Warden sighed and sunk to her elbows, stretching her back. "I might have enjoyed the visit more if we had!" She canted her head to one side in thought. "What would a Brother of the Chantry be doing at a royal wedding?"

Sebastian's smile was sad when he spoke. "He was my older brother."

At this, the Warden sat up right. "Are you telling me you are _Sebastian Vael_?"

He nodded.

The Warden's cheeks flushed. Her mother had told her _things _about Sebastian Vael.

Sebastian saw this and shook his head, his smile wry. "That was a long time ago."

The Warden's hands went to either side of her face and she stifled a nervous laugh. "I know. And you hardly look the part now."

"I am a man grown, and a man made wiser by the words of the Maker."

The conviction with which he spoke surprised the Warden. "I commend you," she said after a few moments of thought, "for the depth of your faith. Would that most could attain such…_certainty._"

Sebastian seemed pleased by these woods, but said nothing. He regarded the Warden from over the top of his strong nose. "Cowsland, was it?"

"Cousland," the Warden corrected mildly. "From Highever."

"And how is your mother?" he asked. "We met briefly, she seemed to be a kind woman."

"Ah," the Warden twisted her hands in front of her. "She is dead."

"Oh, Maker's mercy," Sebastian said quietly, "I am sorry for asking."

"I am surprised that word never reached Kirkwall about what happened in Highever." The Warden frowned. "We traded regularly."

"What… 'happened?'" Sebastian's brow knotted.

"My family was murdered," explained the Warden, "by our family's closest friend: Arl Rendon Howe of Amaranthine. My brother Fergus and I were the only survivors."

Sebastian's face had curled into a mask of anger. "Despicable." He sighed and shook his head, expression softening but vitriol no less strong in his voice, "my family was also murdered by our closet family friend."

"We are kindred spirits," the Warden said gently, "aren't we?"

Sebastian nodded. "I will add your family's name next to mine on the Chanter's Board**, **so that they may always be remembered."

"You do us a great honor, Sebastian, thank you." She sent him a thankful smile, and watched as his expression tried to mirror hers. They shared an awkward, but pleasant silence with one another, the Warden gazing upon Sebastian's handsome face and Sebastian doing his best to avoid staring at the Warden's eye patch. The Warden was instantly aware of his discomfort, since she saw the tremor of alarm cross his features when she saw that he felt he would have to hold her gaze until they spoke again, in order to be polite. Her obviously hidden deformity was easy to ignore if Sebastian could look away, but he could not, since the Warden's eye would not allow it. Her smile widened, and she looked at Sebastian expectantly.

Sebastian shifted on the bed and his hands fell upon the book he had been reading earlier. Relief, like a candle's light, washed over his face. "Would you like to pray?" he asked in a voice that was altogether too excited at the prospect of praying.

It became woefully evident that despite Sebastian's good looks, he was himself quite awkward. The Warden was sure that if the man was backed into a conversational corner, or had nothing to talk about with a friend, that he would default to the thing that gave him the most comfort: the Maker and his Bride. Boring topics for most people, but ones that Sebastian was the most content talking about. It was sad and charming at the same time, given that the Warden had been told many stories of Sebastian's younger, rakish days. Given the choice between the devout man and the scoundrel, the Warden felt herself more comfortable with the former rather than the latter. She would prefer to have Sebastian praying with her, rather than have Sebastian _preying _on her.

"I would like that," the Warden bobbed her head. "Very much."

Sebastian climbed onto the floor between their two beds and beckoned for her to join him. The Warden carefully stretched her legs over the edge of the bed and knelt in front of Sebastian. So close to him, she could smell the heavy incense of the Chantry clinging to his skin, as well as the spicy soap he used to wash with. Completely unabashedly, Sebastian took both her hands in his and clasped them with his own, drawing the Warden forward until their foreheads were touching. The Warden counted no less than twenty-five speckles of gold in the deep blue of Sebastian's eyes, and it was this gold that gave his eyes their almost luminescent hue. The Warden locked her jaw in place to stifle her yawn, and then shut her eye to hide her watery eye. Somewhere, distantly, Sebastian's lips were moving, reciting a prayer to the Maker as Sebastian's warm breath and the spindleweed filled her senses.

_"Maker, my enemies are abundant._  
_Many are those who rise up against me._  
_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_  
_Should they set themselves against me."_

8-8-8

"Time to get up."

The Warden groaned and covered her face with her pillow. "Leave me sleep, mother. There are no parties today."

A snort of indignation sounded from the other side of the pillow, followed by a gentle creaking of the mattress as something large and heavy settled onto it. "And thank the Maker for _that._"

The Warden squawked as her pillow was ripped mercilessly away. She stared into the room, blinking against the harsh sunlight that filtered in through one circular window at the far wall's end. "Monstrous!" she growled, shielding her eyes from the light. "Cruelty!"

Loghain let out a quiet chuckle and gently placed the pillow behind him out of the Warden's reach. "I'll be crueler than that, girl, if you don't get out of bed."

Glowering, the Warden took in the sight of Loghain sitting on the edge of her bed in his fully armored glory. He was washed and clean, with his hair neatly braided, and at his legs sat Dane who stared at her with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. "What is the time?"

"It is not even midmorning," Loghain informed her with a smirk, "we just had a room with a window facing the sunrise."

"And where are we?"

"In the Kirkwall Chantry."

Memories came flooding back into the Warden's mind, as did the scent of spindleweed. "They should make the burning of spindleweed illegal."

"They should make a lot of things illegal," Loghain replied mildly, staring at the sleep disheveled Warden in a mixture of tender curiosity and wicked humor. "But they do not. Tell me, do you plan to laze about in bed all day, or do you intend to buy supplies for the Deep Road expedition so that we can be on our way?"

"Bloody Deep Roads," the Warden groused in response. She struggled to sit up, and put a hand to her head. "Did you feel as though you'd spent a night drinking dwarven ale when you woke up?"

Loghain nodded. "I did. It went away as soon as I dragged myself out of bed and to the nearest wash basin."

"Ah." The Warden licked at her dried lips with her sleep-thickened tongue. "And where's that?"

"In the room. The young man we met last night brought us two basins filled with water."

"And soap?" asked the Warden hopefully. She liked the smell of the soap Brother Sebastian had used.

"Probably."

The Warden sat forward and rested her forehead against Loghain's pauldron. "How did you sleep?"

"Like the dead." Loghain caught the Warden's hand in his gauntlet and ran his thumb absently over the back of her sword callused fingers. "And by the looks of things, you did too. You didn't even stir when I clattered around in my armor. And," he added dryly, "I was making no attempt to be quiet."

"You evil man," the Warden chastised. She pushed the sheet and thin woolen coverlet over Loghain and her leather clad legs and placed her feet on the ground. "Chilly floor."

"Shall I fetch my mistress her boots?" drawled Loghain, raising a thick eyebrow at her with the glimmer of a smirk on his lips.

"Mistress, is it?" the Warden asked curiously. Instead of standing, she instead shifted her weight so that she was leaning against Loghain's chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a wicked smile. "I thought we reserved that title for Ferelden." Feeling Loghain instantly stiffen in her arms, the Warden sighed and closed her eyes. She dropped her forehead against his. "You know I did not mean that cruelly, Loghain. I thought to be seductive; apparently I need more work."

"No," Loghain shook his head and disentangled himself from her arms. "The fault is mine."

"She is your mistress though," persisted the grey-eyed, hawk-stared Warden. "And I am fine if she shares our bed."

Loghain said her name sharply. "Aurora." His lips pursed into a thin line. "This is not a conversation we should be having at this time. Get yourself dressed and ready to go, girl. We've a lot to do today."

The Warden shot Loghain a look of resentment over her shoulder as she stood, and washed her face and mouth in a sullen sort of silence. She undressed quickly, shucking all her dirty clothes aside. She was aware of Loghain watching her as she changed her breast band, and pointedly did not turn her back to him. She let him gaze upon the swells of her breasts and the scars across her front from arrows and stab wounds and magical burns, if only to remind him of what he was missing by his distance. She did not linger overly long in her nudity, thinking it practical to at least bind herself with a new strip of cloth before Brother Sebastian returned and was forced to pluck out his own eyes in penitence. When at last she was dressed, she fastened herself into her armor. She waved away Loghain's hands when he tried to help, laughing out a rather brusque, "I need it not."

Suitably ready for the day ahead of them, the two Grey Wardens and Dane set out into the bright morning sunlight and ran their errands as quickly as they could. They bought two weeks' worth of dried rations and water skins. The trip into the Deep Roads itself should take no longer than four or five days straight traveling down into the amazing, darkspawn-repelling thaig. The Warden anticipated scouting it for at least a day, and then returning to the surface. They would have supplies to last them in case of an emergency, though the Warden was sure that she and Loghain would make two weeks' worth of food last at least three, since both were incredibly conscious of their provisions: Loghain out of habit, the Warden out of paranoia.

They lugged their haul back into the Chantry before setting out that afternoon to find suitable lodging for their horses. They were pleased to find a suitable place on the outskirts of the city, with folk who were well used to travelers. The owners asked the Grey Wardens no questions, though it was the familiar Fereldan accent that put the two Wardens at ease. With their greatest burden taken care of, the Wardens found dinner at a small tavern in the same district as the stable, and ate a quiet meal of bake-stone bread, cheese, and a thick, pungent paste that was made from mushrooms and liver. Loghain didn't like it, which had the Warden chuckling, since she knew the concoction originated in Orlais.

"Even your palate hates the Orlesians," she teased.

Loghain said nothing to that, he could only watch as Dane more than happily ate his portion.

After two mugs of bitter, black ale and a few small current filled pastries, the Wardens went to the Chantry once more. More than once they had to stop in the cool night air for Dane to finish marking his territory. Each time he did it, the Warden rolled her eyes and muttered something about, "men."

They arrived back at the Chantry in time for vespers, and both Wardens obtrusively settled themselves on a pew in the back of the Chantry. Dane crawled under the pew and went to sleep, while Loghain hunkered down as low as he could get on the wooden bench, trying to hide his tall frame behind the thinner silhouettes of worshippers so that he could do the same. In contrast, the Warden sat high and tall in the sight of the Maker, watching the workings of the Chantry during the sermon.

Brother Sebastian was the one leading the prayer, his voice strong and clear in the high ceilinged Chantry. He spoke of duty, honor, and the Maker's eternal love. It was a very stirring song that Sebastian sung, a beautiful tapestry that promised only peace and glory by living as a good a life as one could. The very air around Sebastian seemed to hum with the Maker's grace, and with the covetous stares of the Sisters.

When Sebastian descended from the Sanctuary and the tithing plate was passed around, the Warden gently elbowed the snoring Loghain and carefully dug her heel into Dane's flank to rouse them. Loghain awoke with a groan, Dane with a whine, and the Warden dropped two gold sovereigns in the tithing plate as she led the two males in her life to bed. Dane settled on her bed to sleep as she helped Loghain out of his armor. She heard the creak of the bed below his weight as he settled down atop it as she started to work on her own. She gave a start of surprise as she felt fingers working on removing the straps from the back of her greaves, and looked over her pauldron to see Loghain resting on the edge of his bed as he worked to free her from her prison of plate.

When Loghain was finished, the Warden turned and knelt down on the floor in front of him. She captured his face in her gauntlets and pressed her lips against his. Loghain's hands settled on her tasset, his fingers teasing the gap between it and her breastplate, tickling at leather lining and padding. He accepted her kiss gracefully, though he did not yield to her exploring tongue and the pluck of her teeth and the suck of her mouth against his lower lip. Not even when she kissed him roughly enough to leave his lips swollen did he give in, and the Warden pulled away with an aggrieved sigh and finished stripping off her armor.

"It wouldn't stop," Loghain said quietly, "with just a kiss."

"It would," the Warden countered with a toss of her braid.

"Well," Loghain chuckled quietly, "let me amend what I said: I would not be able to stop, with just a kiss."

"Ahhh," the Warden's haughty countenance softened, "is that what holds you back?"

"That," he remarked in a dry voice, "and the guilt I would feel about embarrassing a servant of the Maker. The Chantry boy would probably burst out into flames if he saw you naked, let alone both of us."

The Warden grinned. "Oh _ho! _You? Feel _guilty_?_" _

"Of course." Loghain scoffed at the idea of not feeling anything but irreverent and disrespectful in such a situation.

"And here I thought," the Warden teased, placing a hand on her hip as she turned to stare at him, "that you would feel obligated to kill him –or blind him – for looking upon me in such a manner."

"The only time you will have me doing that, girl, is in your dreams."

"I am so disappointed."

"I imagine it will not be the last time."

The Warden frowned at the surprisingly sad tone of Loghain's voice, and stacking her armor on the wall beside his, she returned and sat beside him. "You are having doubts, aren't you?"

Loghain looked at his scarred hands and the dark play of hair and veins across his skin. "Of course I am. I'm only a man."

"But you are a great man." The Warden nestled into the warmth of his side, staring down at his hands and the way he turned them palm up and then palm down.

"Stop flattering me, Aurora. I'm too old it."

"Then stop feeling sorry for yourself." The Warden dropped an arm around his shoulders and rested her cheek against his, soothing an ego that she had just wounded with her words. "When we passed through Tevinter, I thought to myself that the mages there were not just men, they were great men. They were beyond men, even, they were living gods – so much so that I think they should be restrained, since they are capable of achieving what no average man can. They can control men and manipulate them with a wave of their hands – they are ultimately dangerous if left unchecked and unchallenged. And yet," the Warden smiled, "sometimes I think the same of you, Loghain Mac Tir. You wield a power of command over men that is not natural. They follow you into battle, and they die for you, and you do not need blood magic to make it so. I will say it again: you are a great man. And you are the more dangerous."

"I…" Loghain sighed, "I am not sure what you meant by that speech, but thank you for it."

"What I meant," the Warden kissed his cheek gently, "is that yes, you are a man, and you have flaws, but you are also capable of doing things that are wonderful. You may disappoint me sometimes, but you astound me others."

"And those two are supposed to negate each other?"

"Mhm."

Loghain shied away as the Warden's hot breath warmed his ear. "Aurora…"

"_Loghain,_" murmured the Warden, kissing the earlobe gently. "I told you to trust me, and to believe in what I say. Why must you _always _doubt me?" She pulled back and stared at him expectantly, waiting an answer to her question.

Loghain did not respond, he merely wrapped his arm around her waist and gently settled himself on the bed. He pulled her along with him until she rested on her side, her breasts pressed against his ribs. "Let me hold you for a few moments before I sleep," he murmured against her golden hair. "If you'll indulge an old man?" He had not even kicked off his boots, nor had she, but Loghain didn't give a damn. He didn't even pull down the covers, or bother to pull his pillow out from under the blanket. He just lay there, and so did she.

"Of course I will," said the Warden in a gentle tone. She traced a circle into Loghain's chest, above his heart, and felt his breathing begin to even as he inhaled the perfume of her hair and skin. She fell asleep only a few moments after he did, and neither of them noticed the shocked, but tender stare that Brother Sebastian shot them when he entered the room a few hours later.

8-8-8

"Do you sense any darkspawn?"

"Not a thing."

Loghain, Dane, and the Warden were four days into their journey, and according to the map were not very far from the discovery site of the thaig. Their travels through the Deep Roads had passed in relative silence, the two Grey Wardens having only shared their thoughts about the terrain and muttered surprised curses when Dane's large head bumped against their legs. Traveling through the darkness was truly no different than traveling along the road or in the forest. As was their routine, Loghain took the first watch, and the Warden took the second, and Loghain created their camp for the night while the Warden scouted the surrounding area and partitioned their rations. With no horses to worry about and only their packs on their backs, they had made good time through the old dwarven roads.

The Warden led the way, holding a torch above her head while Loghain carried the map. At present, they had stopped at a puzzling juncture. Here, the Deep Roads split into two directions, a rightward passage that sloped downward into the earth, and then a leftward passage that sloped upwards towards the surface.

"We go right, yes?" asked the Warden, "after all, it is slanting downward."

"That means little," Loghain replied absently, his eyes wandering over the map, "since there are no passages to the surface anywhere nearby. Likely the two splits lead to roads that are running parallel to this one, due to some sort of obstacle ahead."

"There should be markers," the Warden moved to examine the walls to see if there were any inscriptions but Loghain grabbed the torch from her hand.

"I cannot read the map if you take the only light source," he scolded with a frown, his concentration now on the map once more.

"It is a good thing I do not need light to see," the Warden boasted under her breath, moving from Loghain's side and the glare of the light into the gloom. The quartz enchanted eye provided her with all the guidance she needed to get to the wall ahead of them without tripping over the rubble and armor that littered the end of the passage. Her gauntlets went to touch the stone, and sure enough she found runes. "Perhaps you are more learned than I: do you know the dwarven rune language?"

"No," Loghain replied absently, "but I think we go left."

"Left?" Stalking back to him, the Warden leaned over his shoulder to examine what he was seeing. "Why left?"

Loghain traced the route of the left passage, and how after it intersected with yet another passage, it led straight to the thaig in question. "The right passage goes down, but it veers westward. We want to go east, by the looks of things."

"Once more," the Warden grinned and patted Loghain's shoulder fondly, "your ability to read maps astounds me."

"Don't be absurd," Loghain folded the map and placed it in his belt pouch, keeping a steady hand on the torch. "You can read maps too."

"But I draw on them better." The Warden winked at him, but Loghain missed it in the shadows. When he tried to pass the torch back to her, she waved her hand at him. "No, you know where we're going. You lead."

Loghain marched down the left passage without a word of protest, Dane trotting happily at his side while the Warden flanked him in the darkness. She had her sword and shield in hand, ready to protect Loghain from anything that they might run afoul of. While neither of them could sense the buzzing hornet's nest of darkspawn nearby, that did not mean that there weren't other denizens of the Deep Roads they wouldn't encounter. Both Grey Wardens had suffered attacks from giant spiders while in the Deep Roads, but Loghain had never been on the receiving end of a golem's fist – which is something that the Warden reminded him of quite frequently.

"They will crush your armor," she warned, "if you aren't quick."

"Then I'm doomed," Loghain responded somberly, "since my ability to dodge is quite limited by said armor, and by age, and bad knees. Pray that yours don't give out by the time you're my age."

Thankfully, they encountered no golems on their path; nor did they encounter any spiders. The Deep Roads were silent and dark, and the only sign of life along them was the sudden appearance of bulbous, black lichen that had grown along water-carved cracks. A few patches of lichen actually glowed a faint blue, indicating the presence of lyrium somewhere in the stone where they were drawing their nutrients from.

Loghain veered from the Deep Roads when he spied a large crack in one of the passage's walls, and it was through this that he led them. This crack was another passageway, and was again filled with the lichen. This curious lichen continued to grow in number the closer they got to the thaig, though the lichen soon disappeared. Taking its place were crystals of various shapes and sizes, some glowing blue, some red, and they were so bright that Loghain's torch became superfluous.

"I think," the Warden said, bringing her face close to a crystal and sniffing it, "that this is lyrium."

"It certainly looks how I imagine lyrium would in its raw form," Loghain observed, cocking his head to one side. "The Chantry would love to know of such a place."

"I am sure they would," the Warden strode past him to examine a red crystal, "how much do you think they would pay the Grey Wardens for such information?"

"Not enough," he replied darkly.

Dane did not like the glowing crystals and refused to go near them. He growled whenever the Warden or Loghain stepped too close to one, and using his large bulk, he slowly nudged both his Grey Wardens down the passage by bumping himself against the backs of their legs.

"All right, Dane," the Warden said with a grin, "I understand. We'll get going."

They walked for half a day more until they found the thaig, or what was left of it. Walking through another lyrium lined passageway, they found that it ended by opening up into a large, circular room that also served as the exit point for several other passages. The Wardens stared at the fragments of crystals that littered the floor, shocked at the destruction. It looked as though someone had exploded several barrels' worth of dwarven powder in the cavern, for rocks and rubble were strewn everywhere. All but one other passage was blocked, and neither Loghain nor the Warden wanted to spend the time excavating the other passageways.

"Perhaps the lyrium is what is deterring the darkspawn?" asked Loghain. He peered curiously into the gloom of the other passageway.

"It is possible." The Warden chewed on her bottom lip, watching as Dane sniffed around the many piles of rock. He seemed particularly interested in a very large set of boulders, growling and pawing at the rubble until he managed to dislodge something and brought it to the Warden. The Warden took the piece of blue fabric Dane held in his mouth and held it up to the light of the crystals. She brought it to her nose and sniffed it. "This smells like…perfume. Or soap. Someone was here?"

Dane barked and danced around her feet.

"Can you sniff out the scent, Dane?" the Warden crouched and offered Dane the piece of fabric he had found. "Can you find them?"

Dane barked again and trotted to the passageway that Loghain was looking down. He squeezed through his legs and set off down the corridor.

Loghain protested, "We should rest, Aurora."

But the Warden didn't listen, she followed after Dane, her sword drawn. "There were people here recently. Their scent is fresh. Perhaps they know the mystery of this place."

Loghain blinked in surprised and fell into step beside the Warden, holding the torch between them.

The passage that they walked down was much longer than the one they had come through, and Dane was indeed right that people had come this way, for the passage ended in a large, ancient looking door that hung wide open. Dust had settled along the door's frame, save for in the places that eager little hands had touched. Beyond the open door were a vast cavern and a pool of water, and a narrow bridge that spanned it. This bridge the Wardens crossed carefully, the Warden going first, Dane second, and Loghain bringing up the rear. They had to travel this way in order to convince Dane to cross the bridge, for the Mabari did not like water.

Once across the pool of water, Loghain called for camp to be made. He refused to wander anymore without food and rest in him, and the Warden reluctantly agreed. During their respite, Loghain consulted the map, and taking out a small bit of armor polish, he smudged where he thought their location was on the map. He then made a smaller smudge near the closest exit from the Deep Roads, his eyes scanning an appropriate route for them to leave by. When he was done, he slept. They slept four hours each and nibbled at their rations before pressing onward again. Loghain could make out footsteps in the dust and dirt of the cavern, counting at least a group of four ahead of them.

It did not take long for the Grey Wardens and Dane to catch up with the group of four, simply because on the second day of the chase, the Grey Wardens began to feel the familiar tingling of Darkspawn at the backs of their minds. The more they followed, the stronger the tingling and buzzing became, and soon the two Wardens were sprinting down narrow tunnels after Dane. Urgency fueled their senses as they sought to find the travelers before the darkspawn did.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. Every three miles they traveled, the Grey Wardens found darkspawn bodies that had been mutilated in a variety of fashions: some were hacked to death, others were burnt, and some were filled with holes from well placed bolts.

"Curious," Loghain said. "They're not bad."

"We'll have to meet up with them eventually," the Warden peered out into the gloom. "They'll be forced to stop."

"As will we," Loghain replied.

"But not yet."

The Warden's prediction naturally came true. The supposedly lost Deep Roads party was engaged in mortal combat with three hulking ogres when the Grey Wardens came upon them. Two of the ogres looked to be otherwise indisposed, having been frozen solid, while another was frantically swiping at a blur of white and blue energy. As it was distracted, it was being pelted by crossbow bolts. It became obvious to the Wardens who had hacked the darkspawn to pieces and who had caused all the puncture marks between the darkspawns' eyes, but they could not see the person responsible for the burn marks and the ice.

Dane joined the battle against the ogre first, followed by the Warden who bellowed out a roar to match the one of fury the ogre gave when Dane's jaw clamped down behind its knee. Loghain joined more cautiously, mindful of not only the beast's claws, but also the slicing of the long blade being wielded by the blur of light.

Against five opponents the ogre could do nothing except bleed and bray as it died. It fell face forward to the floor, and sheathing her sword, the Warden gave a command of, "it needs to be burnt!" to the elf and the dwarf who were standing before her with their weapons drawn.

"Who're you?" asked the dwarf with a tilt of his head.

"I am a Grey Warden," the Warden replied. "We are both Grey Wardens." She extended her arm to Loghain, who came to stand beside her. Dane was skulking in the shadows, ready to strike if the situation went badly. "We were ordered to investigate the area when we found signs of your battle in the glowing thaig."

The dwarf and the elf shared a look. "So, why'd you track us down?"

"We hoped to protect you from the darkspawn," the Warden chuckled, "but it seems you had everything well in hand."

"Hawke," the dwarf called, turning his head to the left but keeping his eyes on the Grey Wardens, "there's people here you should meet."

From the cover of a wall of rocks appeared a woman in a torn blue dress. Her blonde hair was tied back from her face, though what was likely once an immaculate coif now had tangles of hair sticking out in every direction. Of particular note was the long, elegantly carved staff she carried, from which out of the top came a soft, yellow light. "What is it, Varric?" the woman asked, looking between the two Grey Wardens and her companions.

"These two say they're Grey Wardens."

"How fortunate for us." The woman, Hawke, flashed the two Grey Wardens a relieved smile. "Thank you for coming to our assistance. I didn't expect to run into Grey Wardens."

"We didn't expect to run into…" the Warden looked between the three travelers in front of her, "explorers."

The woman placed herself between the Grey Wardens and her companions. "We came into the Deep Roads as part of a larger expedition that was exploring a very old dwarven thaig. We…" frowned, "became separated from the main group, rather forcefully."

"By the darkspawn?" the Warden looked at Loghain, who was staring at the group impassively.

"Not exactly," the woman said. "Our expedition leader - "

"Lost his mind," muttered the dwarf. "Nug-humping bastard."

The Warden put a hand to her mouth to quiet the surprise chuckle bubbling behind her lips.

"Lost his mind," the woman finished. "And so we are here."

"So you are." The Warden looked at the two frozen ogres. "Did you do that?"

The woman nodded.

"Are you a mage?"

The woman nodded again.

"Ah, that would explain it. Did the Circle have an interest in the thaig too?"

The woman shook her head. "No, they did not."

"Did you discover anything about that thaig?" Loghain interrupted. "It is almost completely destroyed."

"No," the mage said, "we didn't learn anything. We did not get much time to examine it, unfortunately. We were too busy trying to find our way out of it. We were beset upon by rock creatures and barely escaped with our lives."

"And then darkspawn came," the elf added in a low voice. Markings on his skin were glowing like the lichen they had passed by.

"Rock creatures?" Loghain pursed his lips when he heard the Warden mutter to herself, "that would explain all the rubble."

The mage opened her mouth to say more, but promptly shut it when a low, long moan sounded through the air. Her pretty, dust-smeared face turned into a mask of worry, and she excused herself with a quiet, "I need to see to my brother," before she hurried away back around the wall of rocks.

The Warden watched her go, and then turned curious eyes to the dwarf. "Her brother is injured?"

"No," the dwarf shook his head, "Junior's been having chest and stomach pains since we first encountered the darkspawn. He claims it was just bad mushrooms he ate, but it's been two days now and he's not looking any better."

"May I go see him?" asked the Warden, feeling the weight of the Joining vial hanging heavily around her neck.

"Broody," the dwarf tilted his head to the rocks, "take the Grey Wardens over."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," the elf muttered, before striding away on his bare feet to where Marcelle had disappeared.

The dwarf gestured for the two Grey Wardens to follow, and both did so, but not before Loghain looked over his shoulder to see if the dwarf was pointing the crossbow at his back. Thankfully, the dwarf was not.

Rounding the rock wall, the Grey Wardens discovered that the wall shielded a deep alcove. In the alcove a fire was burning, and the mage and the man the dwarf had called Junior were sitting beside it. The young man looked to be the mage's brother, for they shared the same facial features. He was propped against one of the curving walls of the alcove, a cloak draped over his lap. His hands were shaking and his face was gleaming with sweat. The mage's fingers were glowing blue over his forehead as she tried to cast a spell that would ease his pain.

"I have tried everything," the mage said quietly, "to heal him, all to no avail. I…" she swallowed, "I fear he has been poisoned by the darkspawn."

"Just like Wesley," the man croaked. "I'm going to die just like him."

The mage shushed him by putting one of her hands to his forehead.

The Warden came to kneel beside the young man and inspected him in the light of the fire. The corruption was evident on his features, the black poison of the darkspawn seeping through his veins and turning them purple below his skin. "He has blight sickness," she said at last. "He must have either been cut by one of their blades, or inhaled some of their gore."

The mage hung her head. "It is my fault. I am sorry, Carver."

"Yeah," the young man, now Carver, croaked, "it is. But," he wheezed, "I wanted to come."

"The best we can do for him," Loghain said from where he was standing behind the Warden's shoulder, "is to give him the mercy of a quick death."

"No," the mage shook her head, casting her blue eyes up to Loghain's, "there is a cure for his sickness."

It was Loghain's turn to shake his head. "I'm afraid there isn't."

"Becoming a Grey Warden," the mage said in a strong voice, "is a cure."

"The Grey Wardens are not a charity. We do not simply make other Grey Wardens out of pity. It is a duty. A calling." Loghain did not say the words because he believed them, but rather because he believed the young man by the fire would have a better life dying in the arms of his sister than meet his end cold and alone in the same place after existing in a miserable half-life of backward politics.

"Please," the mage begged, "my brother is strong. He is a capable warrior. He has fought in battle before."

"Which battle?" asked Loghain skeptically.

"He was at Ostagar. He fought there."

"_Barely _survived, more like," Carver winced as he shifted to sit up.

"You must have been infantry," Loghain commented, because he did not remember the man's face amongst his cavalry.

"I was," Carver nodded. "Teyrn Loghain left us to die, but I still managed to get out from that darkspawn nightmare. And now look where I'm making my grave. In another darkspawn nightmare."

It dawned on the Warden, and on Loghain too, that Carver had likely never seen Loghain Mac Tir, because he never would have spoken so casually about his grievances if he had.

"Will you make him a Grey Warden?" the mage asked, looking now at the Warden. "Will you save my brother's life?"

"It is not an easy life," the Warden said slowly, "and it is a short one. He may never be able to see you again, mage."

"I do not care," the mage replied, "simply knowing he is alive will be enough for me."

The Warden could easily imagine swapping places with this woman, and holding a dying Fergus in her arms. She did not know if, knowing what she did now, she could push for Fergus to cheat death by becoming a Grey Warden, not when the price was so high. She would prefer Fergus to die in the safety of her arms than underground in the arms of the darkspawn. Such thoughts immediately made the Warden of a mind to reject this woman's request.

Yet, even as the Warden's sympathies recoiled, her instincts leapt forward. There was a _very _compelling reason to make this young man, this _Fereldan _man a Grey Warden. The reason was that he would be _her _Grey Warden. At Vigil's Keep there awaited her a handful of Grey Wardens who were strangers – some who did not know her, and some who wanted her dead. Her only ally amongst the Fereldan Wardens was Loghain. To forgo one more ally would be remiss on her part, and so the shrewd, forward thinking Warden feigned a large, reluctant sigh and nodded her head.

"If your brother chooses it," she said slowly, "then I will make him a Grey Warden. But you both must know that there is no guarantee of success. He could still _die._"

"I don't care," Carver said in a raspy whisper, "anything's better than this. Anything's better than going back to Kirkwall."

The mage looked pained at his statement, but she nodded her head. "It is what he wants."

"Very well then." The Warden pulled herself into a crouch and carefully wrapped one of Carver's arms around her neck. "Carver," she instructed, "I am going to stand, and you are going to lean your weight on me."

"All right," he mumbled, his feet scrabbling against the floor as the Warden brought herself to her full height. Carver was several inches taller than she was, and much broader in the shoulders, but the strong-armed Warden held him steady.

The dwarf and the elf took places on either side of the mage.

"Why do you have to move him?" the mage asked, her blue eyes wide.

"Because some secrets you are not meant to know," the Warden replied, gesturing for Loghain to wrap one of Carver's other arms around his shoulder. "If he survives," she said over her pauldron, "I will have him write to you. If you do not hear from him, then you have my deepest apologies."

As the two Grey Wardens made their way into the gloom, they heard the elf and the dwarf offer consoling words to the mage, but no sound came from the woman. Loghain imagined that she was staring into her fire and swallowing her grief.

Dane emerged from the shadows and whined at his mistress, master, and the stranger they had between them.

"A new addition to the family, Dane," the Warden said in a strained voice, Carver's weight beginning to wear on her.

Loghain was the one who led them out of the cavern and into another set of passageways, his mind recalling the winding tunnels of the map with startling clarity. They were on their way to the surface, and while they had nothing to show the First Warden save for a new recruit and a report of the tomb's destruction, Loghain couldn't bring himself to care.

"Who are you two anyway?" Carver asked, barely able to keep his head held straight to look ahead. "Do Grey Wardens have names?"

"Of course we have names," the Warden scolded. "Yours is Carver, yes?"

"Carver Hawke, that's me." Carver did not seem particularly pleased when he spoke. "Younger brother to the magnificent Marcelle Hawke."

"You sound very bitter when you say that," the Warden remarked dryly.

"We probably don't want to know," Loghain interrupted Carver before he could explain. "Your family is the past now. As are all your grievances with it."

"You try having an apostate for sister and saying that so easily."

The Warden chuckled. "I imagine my older brother having magical powers would have been quite a novelty."

Carver managed to shake his head. "Not really."

"Well," the Warden replied in amusement, "I stand corrected."

Loghain inclined his head to what appeared to be a small gap in the rocks, and the Wardens squeezed through it and into a small, circular cave that was quite empty and well illuminated by juts of jagged crystal from the walls.

"Come along, Carver Hawke," the Warden said as she lowered him to the floor against one of the cave's walls. "Let's sit you down."

"You never told me your names," Carver grumbled, sagging bonelessly against the wall.

"I am Aurora Cousland," the Warden said, slipping off her gauntlets so she could fish out the small vial of Joining fluid from around her neck. "And this is Loghain Mac Tir." She inclined her head to Loghain.

Carver squinted at them in the light. "Sod off. You're not."

"We are," the Warden said, finding the chain and pulling it over her head.

"The Hero of Ferelden _died._ You can't be here. Though," Carver peered at Loghain's face, "you're ugly enough to be old Teyrn Loghain. You've certainly got the nose, mate."

Loghain scowled at Carver, while the Warden broke out into a peal of soft laughter.

"He does have a very impressive nose," the Warden smiled as she unstopped the vial, "amongst other things. Now, Carver." She turned her grey eye to Carver's face as her mind worked to recall the words she had heard Duncan speak long ago, "since the first, these words have been spoken: Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you."

"That's it?" Carver asked. "I'm a Grey Warden now?"

The Warden shook her head and offered Carver the vial of Joining mixture. "Drink it, Carver," she said, "and you will be a Grey Warden." She caught Loghain's stern glance from the corner of her eye, and slowly placed her free hand on his knee.

Carver took the vial between a dirty thumb and forefinger and brought it to his lips. He tipped the small vial back as he drank the mouthful down. All at once his tongue lolled out of his mouth. "Foul!" he gasped, shaking his head. "Like drinking - " his words stopped as his eyes glazed over and his head drooped forward. He began to convulse and shake, toppling onto the Warden as the Joining mixture worked its way through his body. When at least he was still, the Warden put her fingers to his pulse.

"He lives," she said with a sigh of relief.

Loghain plucked the vial off the ground where it had fallen from Carver's hand and held it out for the Warden. "You made a mistake."

"Did I?" the Warden raised her eyebrow.

"Yes."

"How did I err?"

"He's only a boy, Aurora."

"He is a boy from Ferelden who was looking for an escape from his life and his family. I have delivered both of these things to him. That makes us friends, yes? And who is the most successful person at the Landsmeet?" she asked him with an imperious glance at Carver.

"The Astonishing Aurora Cousland," Loghain drawled with a roll of his eyes. "With her ability to ban herself at every one that she attends."

The Warden's eye narrowed. "The most successful person at the Landsmeet is the person with the most friends."

"And what does that have to do with him?"

"We are _alone _at Vigil's Keep, Loghain. The Wardens left behind there are not _ours. _They are Andraste's. Do not," she said with a sigh, "make me quote you about the Grey Warden advancement: that it only happens to those who are the most slavishly loyal. The ones at the vigil are loyal to Andraste. They're not loyal to Ferelden."

"Or," Loghain added dryly, "you."

"Or you," she said with a nod of her head in his general direction. "Carver, however, is."

"Not to me," Loghain let out a snort at the thought of Carver Hawke being loyal to _him. _"To you, maybe. He apparently hates me. I left him to die, or had you forgotten?"

"He'll see reason after he's had time to learn the truth about Ostagar," the Warden said with a shrug, "and if he does not, he will learn to keep his peace. But come," she flashed him a weary smile, "let us rest in safety and solitude for the moment. We have yet to even see him hale and healthy. Perhaps his mood will improve when he is not on the verge of death."

Loghain was not convinced, but kept his tongue. He settled against the far wall, observing the Warden Commander and how she sat next to Carver with Dane's head in her lap. In the blue light of the crystals, he could easily make out her face and the play of shadows along her features. Her grey eye stared off into the distance, its gaze so intense and focused that Loghain thought she might be trying to bore a hole through the rock with it. Her brow was furrowed in the way it did when she was deep in thought, and Loghain imagined that she had retreated to a place where not even he could follow. He guessed that in her mind's eye she was sitting atop that blasted griffon throne, a legion of Grey Wardens kneeling at its base as she swept her arm out over them and commanded them to obey her.

Little did Loghain know that he was right.

* * *

_Next chapter should have our heroes back in Amaranthine, and we'll see all the joys that await them. I anticipate a weather forecast of drama, with showers of angst as well as some patches of rough sex._

_I'll probably have Chapter 15 of _Worth _up sometime tomorrow or the day after, for those of you who are following both stories. I spent most of today writing _Worth_ 39, so I didn't get as much as I wanted done on 15. _

_Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I'm always thrilled to hear you're enjoying chapters, and I highly appreciate the conversations we have. On that note - the site has changed the way they handle review responses now. Responses take place via the private messaging system, so if you have private messaging disabled, I cannot respond to you. *sadface*_


	47. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

Sunlight was a welcome relief. Three days of trampling through the Deep Roads, plus a day's worth of crawling through a narrow tunnel the dwarves had constructed for ventilation purposes was enough to make even the most earth-steady Grey Warden long for the open air. And when it was that they did reach the open air, it was with a bark of happiness from Dane, two quiet sighs of relief from the senior Grey Wardens, and a large exclamation of excitement from the junior.

"I never want to go back into that dirty, dark hole again," exclaimed Carver, rubbing dust and rubble from off his pauldrons.

"You are not going to have a choice," replied the Warden as she and Loghain hunched over a map that Loghain had pulled from his belt pouch. "Grey Wardens and the Deep Roads are meant to be; like wine and cheese." Dane twirled around her legs like a giant cat, rubbing himself against her and panting happily.

"Can't you just lure the darkspawn to the surface? I'd really rather not go back."

"The _whine _part," Loghain said quietly under his breath to his commander, "you certainly have right, Aurora."

"Shhh," she admonished in a whisper, gently letting her pauldron rest against his, "there's no reason to pick a fight. And," she pitched her voice louder, "on occasion, yes. But most of our work takes place in their warrens. They hide in them like rabbits when there isn't a Blight."

"So they're no danger then?" Carver scratched at his black hair.

"I said they hid in their warrens," the Warden flashed him a grim smile, "I didn't say they _stayed _there. We have to deal with the aftermath of the Fereldan Blight, which will require us to hunt them in and out of the Deep Roads. You aren't," she raised a challenging eyebrow, "_afraid _of them, are you? Carver?"

Carver's chest puffed out like a peacock. "I'm not." After Carver had come to terms with the fact that his rescuers were both Fereldan hero and villain, he had warmed up. To the Warden, at least. She had flashed him her Cousland signet ring and told him some stories about Highever, and how she had been to Lothering, and what she'd done in Denerim, and how she'd gained her patch, and in the darkness Carver had listened with large, glassy eyes. She was slightly older than Carver, though not by much, and it was evident that Carver saw in the Warden what _he _could become, if he tried. To Carver, they were both refugees from their homes; both forced to fight the darkspawn, and of an age where the great yawning maw of destiny was still before them.

He respected the Warden. And he wanted to _be _her. Thus, when she nudged his pride and ruffled his feathers, he had to _show _her that he _was _like her. He was brave and strong. He could kill darkspawn and hide in the Deep Roads and do all manner of Grey Wardeny things. "I don't fear the darkspawn."

"That's good." She lowered her eyebrow. "Grey Wardens cannot know fear." Her eye returned to the map.

Loghain bit his tongue from saying anything; to him, it was evident what she was doing. Instead, he put a dusty finger on a location somewhere within the tree line and said, "We're approximately here. We're about two days' march from Kirkwall." He let his finger trail southward to a point on the map that had the words _Kirkwall _written in thick, curving script. "Our best course of action..." he licked at his lips. "Would probably be to cut through the trees until here," he marked a location about a half day's walk away, "and then join up at the road."

"I see no road," the Warden said. "What indicates a road on this map?"

Loghain showed her how the cartographer had shaded the trees, and how there was a faint but distinctly pale green line running all the way to Kirkwall itself. "A heavily wooded area, right up until the coastline. Paler shading denotes roads running through the forest. You can see there's a network of them." And indeed, there were many roads branching out that spread throughout the Free Marches and off the map into neighboring Nevarra.

"Ah!" The Warden beamed at him. "You learn something new every day. Where would we be without you, Loghain?"

"Still in Ferelden and not lying dead in a ditch at Ostagar?"

Both the Warden and Loghain turned their heads towards Carver, who had his arms over his chest and was staring at Loghain with narrowed eyes. It had been the first time had been openly hostile to Loghain after his Joining, having preferred to ignore the older man entirely. Both senior Wardens thought they would be free of his youthful melancholy and drama, but they were apparently mistaken.

Loghain opened his mouth to respond but the Warden put a gentle hand on his breastplate to still his words. "No, Carver," she said in a deceptively silky voice, "Without Loghain, we would probably still be under the rule of Orlais. Or worse: we'd be dead to the darkspawn."

"I think the reverse is worse," Loghain muttered offhand. He reached out a hand to absently touch Dane's head, and the Mabari pushed it lovingly into his hand.

It drew a grim chuckle from the Warden. "I am sure it could have been. Now," she cocked her head to one side, "I know you have..." she sought for the correct word, "grievances about what happened at Ostagar; the Maker knows that I do too. However," and this she said quite sharply, so much so that Carver winced, "You are a Grey Warden now. You are not a soldier. You are to put aside your differences, and if you cannot, then let those differences make you a better man. Know that I will not have fighting within my ranks - not between my Wardens and my Second, not between my Wardens and myself, and _not _between my Wardens _period_."

"What's to stop him from just leaving us behind if a skirmish goes badly?" Carver pointed a finger at Loghain, who took his insult with all the disinterest that a lifetime of attending Landsmeets could invoke.

"Because she's bloody well hard to kill," Loghain said mildly, tilting his head in the Warden's direction. His words were meant more to deflect attention from himself and onto the Warden, who Carver worshipped, not to stroke her ego. After all, he only partially believed them; the Warden was a very easy to target, which in theory, made her easy to kill. Yet, they had been through the Blight on opposite sides of the law, and he had seen her during the coup in Orlais. He had tried his best to end her threat before she became another Moira, just as Marcus had tried to. But they'd both failed. She always came back; kicking, screaming, and clawing for more. Easy to kill, yes. Capable of staying dead? No.

The Warden was glowing with pleasure at Loghain's words.

"Heh," Carver could not find fault with Loghain's argument, and gave him a grudging look of peace. "That certainty is better than none, I guess. But things aren't good between us. I saw my friends die at Ostagar."

"You think you were the only one?" Loghain sighed and turned away. He'd lost friends and trusted commanders to the darkspawn during that battle; a battle that he hadn't even wanted, that he had tried to avoid. But what the King wanted, the King got, and he wanted glory, and so he got it: at the end of a darkspawn's weapon. King Cailan the Bold, died being foolishly stupid and brought hundreds of men to death with him. That wasn't glorious; that was monstrous. "You'll always carry the battle with you, lad." He folded up his map and put it back into his belt pouch. "Just learn to dwell on it in silence like the rest of us."

Loghain would always regret Ostagar, but Ostagar was but a single battle in the long list of battles he had fought that would haunt him. Loghain would always carry the Orlesian occupation with him; he would die with it still on his mind. He would never be able to come to terms with it, just as he suspected young Carver might not come to terms with Ostagar. But there was nothing an angry solider could do over a lost battle. Nor was there anything he could do about an enemy that was no longer an enemy. The only two options were to move on as best one could, or die. Loghain had been moving on for a long time, and he would still be moving on when death claimed him in the darkness of the Deep Roads.

Carver opened his mouth to speak, but the Warden put up her dirt encrusted gauntlet and shook her head. He frowned at her, blue eyes uncertain, questioning. He would not be put down so easily; but the Warden was not cowed. She narrowed her grey eye and leveled him with a chillingly neutral stare, and Carver, seeing nothing friendly or sympathetic in her features, pursed his lips and averted her eyes. By the way he flashed his eyes up at her briefly as they made their way out of the forest, it was clear to the Warden that he wanted to try and make amends for raising her ire; which was good. She could yell at Dane for being naughty, and Dane would always skulk back to her and wag his tail, and all would be well. She was glad the same could be said for Carver. It meant he needed her (approval, attention, love, respect...), just as much as she needed him.

Their journey to the road passed in relative silence. Birds cried out around them as they crunched their way over a carpet of yellow leaves and muddy green moss. They weaved around tree trunks like the fine threads of a tapestry, leaving trails of brown, disturbed earth in their passing. Above them, tree limbs waved in the breeze and scratched against one another, the ancient wood of the forest groaning and creaking. Dane bounded ahead into the thick forest, returning every so often with something he found interesting in his mouth. The Warden would take it and throw it out into the underbrush, and Dane would go out to retrieve it and instead bring back something else. Loghain chuckled in amusement at his game, and when the Warden tired of it, he took up the call.

"I met a Dalish elf," whispered Carver to the Warden, trying to make conversation, "who said that when the forest made noises like this that the trees were speaking to each other."

"They would know," she replied back, gingerly stepping over a large root that was in her way and watching how Carver lithely hopped over it with his powerful legs (for he could do such things in his lighter mix of leather and chain). "They make forests like these their homes."

"Yeah," he agreed. "She missed the forests. She was exiled."

"Was she really?" the Warden asked in a tone that she hoped conveyed interest, even though she really wasn't interested. "How curious."

He nodded. "She was a blood mage, so her clan didn't want her around. Can't blame them really. Mages, especially blood mages, are incredibly dangerous."

"That is a very wise opinion." The Warden threw him a half smile in reward and slowed her pace, as much as she would have preferred the opposite. Loghain had started to lag behind them over the course of the journey, starting out at the Warden's side, and then to slowly behind her, and then to behind Carver (who sped up so as to _not _walk abreast of him), and was now about ten paces away. Even though Dane had slowed his pace and was now trotting alongside him, she knew that the distance between them would only continue to grow. "Do you know?" she said loudly, "I am quite hungry. Let us stop for ten minutes or so, so that I can stuff my face in traditional Grey Warden fashion."

Carver raised his thick black eyebrows at her, and then let out a shy smile. "I'm hungry too!"

"I bet you are." The Warden clapped him on the shoulder. "The hunger is worse after the Joining; I don't know how you survived on the meager rations we brought."

"I don't know either," he admitted. He didn't realize that Loghain and the Warden had been trading off skipping meals so that he would have enough food. New Grey Wardens faced crippling appetites, which they needed to satisfy in order for their bodies to become accustomed to the taint. The appetite never decreased over time, but it became easier to eat less and go without eating for longer once one had become accustomed to the sensations.

Loghain and Dane caught up to them a few moments later, Loghain nodding at the Warden who had sat herself down upon a large tangle of thick roots that were jutting from the earth next to a thick slab of stone. She gestured for Loghain to sit, indicating he should use the stone. He barely managed to seat himself down upon it before Carver became aware of it and took a step towards it. Carver was forced to sit on the dry leaves. These he pushed into small piles with his hands, and then dashed them with his feet. He looked like a child playing with his toys, and in the slivers of sunlight trailing down from the canopy, he was. Dane watched him warily and settled himself down for a brief nap on top of Loghain's feet.

"So," the Warden closed her eyes and tilted her head back. "I was thinking that we'd spend the night in Kirkwall, and then try to book passage back to Ferelden the following morning. We'll wait however long we have to, but I would like to be back in Amaranthine as soon as possible. We have..." she licked her lips and grasped for the words, "...rebuilding...to do." Rebuilding of both the Vigil and the Arling, but also of the Grey Wardens.

"We heard a rumor that Amaranthine was destroyed," Carver raised his eyes to the Warden, "is this true?"

"It is," though it was Loghain who responded. "The darkspawn sacked the Keep, but the Arling remains mostly intact."

"Not Amaranthine City." Carver's look to Loghain said, 'I know more than you do.'

"_Mostly _intact," repeated Loghain. "And the Arling encompasses Amaranthine City."

Carver shrugged, still convinced he had won.

"I wonder where we'll get the money to rebuild from," the Warden mused. She had a half-smile on her full lips. "Do you think Warden Commander Caron left us any?"

"I doubt it." Loghain rubbed at his temples with his fingers. "The Grey Wardens are stingy enough; the Orlesian Grey Wardens wouldn't spend a dime."

"Well," the Warden cracked open her eye and looked at Loghain from down the tip of her nose, "_someone _has to pay for the reconstruction. Do you think she even set the funding in motion?"

He shook his head, sending one of his thick braids swinging over his ear and down his cheek. "No. If she had, she would have told you, I'd wager."

"Your brother is the Teyrn of Highever, isn't he? And your," Carver didn't even look at Loghain, "daughter is the Teyrna of Gwaren. Ask them for money; that's what family is for."

"What a droll suggestion," Loghain drawled. He turned to the Warden. "Do you want to write Anora the letter, or shall I?"

The Warden grinned, revealing her even white teeth. She looked like a positively enchanting predator in the sunlight, with her golden hair swinging in a braid down her back and her white teeth a stark contrast against her blood-smeared lips (her blood, of course. Her lips had cracked from the dryness, and she had pulled away stray bits of skin with her teeth). "I think Fergus might become offended if I keep asking him for money; but Carver has the right of it. Amaranthine is part of Ferelden, I do hope that the Crown will help pay. And since the Vigil is now the Grey Wardens' property, I do expect remuneration from Weisshaupt. I'll be very cross if I have to pay this out of pocket."

"I wouldn't expect much help from Ferelden." Loghain sniffed indignantly in an almost aristocrat gesture. "Things are different now than they used to be. The nobles are too busy filling their own purses with coin and hording that gold to the ruin of the country. Ferelden nearly went bankrupt during Cailan's rule; it was only Anora who managed to save the treasury."

"Mmmmm." The Warden hummed a low tune that sounded suspiciously like a Fereldan battle hymn. "It would be a shame to have Orlais finance our reconstruction. How...embarrassing for Ferelden that would be."

The Warden and Loghain shared a long look. It was clear that they were having a conversation with their eyes, speaking to each other through the fine muscles of eyebrow and eyelid than with their tongues. Loghain's blue eyes were almost black due to a band of shadow that fell diagonally across them. His heavy brow was knotted in a scowl. The Warden's grey eye was almost green from the reflection of the light against the trees, and she had her eye half-lidded as she stared undaunted into Loghain's face. They did not seem to come to an accord, but after several long moments, the Warden broke into a small peal of girlish laughter and gently put her hand on Loghain's knee, patting it fondly.

"Don't you worry, Loghain," she said gently. "We'll find the money, somehow." With a sigh, the Warden reached behind her and shrugged off her pack. She pulled it onto her lap and rifled through it, fishing out some of the dried jerky they had brought, as well as a handful of dried apricots. At the sound of the rustling, Dane's ears instantly rose and he sat up. He looked mournfully at his mistress, who looked mournfully back at him.

"Are you a starving puppy?" she asked, her voice high.

Dane barked.

"Are you a starrrvvviiinnngggg puppppy?" she repeated, this time dragging out her words in her insufferably high tone.

Dane barked again and wagged his stumpy tail.

"Loghain, do you think he is - "

"Yes, Aurora," Loghain interrupted. "Don't tease him and give him some jerky."

"Fine, fine," she sighed. She tossed a sliver of the salted meat into the air, and Dane's jaw opened wide to catch it. It landed atop his flat tongue and then disappeared down his throat; no chewing required. His tongue lolled out of his mouth and he whined for more. "Only one more piece," the Warden said, biting off a piece of the jerky she had in her hand and then tossing it to him. "The rest is for me."

Dane whined.

"Yes, for _me, _silly pup_._"

"And me!" Carver stretched out a hand, and barely managed to catch the piece of jerky his commander threw his way. Dane watched it soar over his head, and Carver could have sworn he saw Dane's hindquarters twitch in anticipation. "If you were Mutton," he said to the mabari, "you'd have caught that jerky and eaten it shamelessly."

"Mutton?" asked the Warden.

"He's my sister's mabari. He stays with our mother most of the time, but he's a bastard dog. He'll steal the food off your plate if you aren't careful."

The image brought a smile to Loghain's face, making him appear young in the shadows and the sunlight, like some ancient prince of old. "It seems that a love of food is a natural proclivity of the breed."

"How did you find a mabari in Kirkwall?" The Warden passed a piece of jerky to Loghain, as well as a handful of the apricots. He took both of these with a grateful smile.

"We didn't," Carver said around a mouthful of meat, "we got her from a passing noble family in Lothering."

"Indeed now?" the Warden raised an eyebrow. "Do you know the family?"

"Old Arl Bryland out of South Reach." Carver shook his head as he chewed. "He was trying to _give _the pups away."

Loghain shot the Warden a stare out of the corner of his eye. He could see that she _definitely _had something to say on the matter. "Always about Habren, isn't it?"

"It was a _mercy_," she drawled, stuffing an apricot under her tongue, "that he gave them away. Did you know," and to this she looked at Dane, "Bryland _asked _if I would consent to Dane breeding with his own mabari bitch. I had to decline the request; I could not stand the thought of Dane siring puppies that would be tortured at the hands of his vile daughter."

Carver's mouth went limp with fascination. "Does she kill dogs, or something?"

"Dogs, cats, rats, servants, _moods,_" the Warden shrugged. "She's a little spoiled tyrant."

Loghain snorted at that. "Pot calling the kettle black, I see."

"Says the stove," she returned with a flash of her teeth. She chewed loudly on the apricot. "I hope Bryland does not marry her off. I would so love to see her run the South Reach Arling. I hope I'm alive when she's Arlessa, because I cannot wait to face her publically in a Landsmeet."

"If you throw wine on her again, she'll motion to have you expelled." Loghain popped an apricot into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"My opinions are worth more than her," the Warden's voice took on a high, breathy pitch, "'fine Orlesian silks,'" as she mimicked the girl. "I wonder if I can tax that Arling extra on Orlesian imports that come through my port?"

Carver barely concealed his laughter. "Looks like somebody's holding a grudge!"

"When you meet her," the Warden replied soberly, "you'll know."

"And let us hope," Loghain finished off the last of the dried fruit in his hand, "that it doesn't happen too soon. Habren Bryland has the unfortunate habit of latching onto anything remotely her age with legs and a deep voice. You'd never see your newest recruit again."

Carver Hawke didn't seem particularly pleased at the idea of being Habren Bryland's plaything, but nor did he seem indifferent to it. The boy just wanted attention. "She's probably not my type, but..."

"But nothing," the Warden shook her head. "Anyway, we are wasting daylight. We should get moving again." She closed her pack and slipped it back into place before standing and setting forth into the woods once more.

8-8-8

Two days later found them in Kirkwall once more. They arrived as afternoon had begun to wane, and making use of what daylight there was left, they went to the docks and looked for passage that would take them home to Amaranthine. They were lucky in that they found a merchant ship that was planning to depart to Ferelden in two days' time, and negotiating a price with the captain for three Grey Wardens, a mabari, and two horses, they left feeling satisfied that they had not been fleeced.

Carver, having been in Kirkwall longer, knew of good, cheap places to eat, and he brought his fellow Grey Wardens to a small tavern in low town called the _Clean Copper _which was not very clean, and didn't have a lick of copper in it. If there had been any metal, it had likely been stolen. As it was, the place was a grim, black-wooded establishment with tables that were sticky with ale and walls that were stained with smoke. But upon hearing the cost of a meal for four people (for Dane needed food as well), and after seeing the size of the pies that other patrons were eating, they knew that, again, they had not been fleeced.

But they were fleeced when they spent the night at a Lowtown inn. The Warden had wanted to go back to the Chantry, but Loghain had refused to return back there, and Carver had actually agreed with him.

"There's some creep there who's stalking my sister," he had said angrily, casting his eyes upwards to where the spires of the Kirkwall Chantry were. "If I see him, I'll knock his head in."

The Warden, not wanting a fight, had consented to two nights in the inn; though she had complained loudly and bitterly at the cost of it, and how, if they had truly wanted to be robbed, they could have stayed in a Hightown inn for much the same price, but double the comfort. She had only quieted when Loghain paid extra for her to have a bath on the second night of their stay.

With Carver in the common room playing cards with Dane (the Warden thought it absurd, but she had let Dane go with him to humor him), it was just Loghain and the Warden in the small bathhouse of the inn. The Warden was stripping behind a wooden screen, and Loghain was sitting on top of an overturned barrel, perched in front of a mirror as he gave himself a much needed shave. From the angle of the mirror, Loghain was able to see the Warden emerge from behind the wooden slats of the screen. She was quite naked, save for her eye patch, and without giving too much thought for modesty's sake, she quickly put her arms over her head and stretched before stepping slowly into the steamy bathwater. Turning his eyes back to his throat, he heard her submerge with a gentle splash.

The water was lukewarm, not hot, but it was warm enough to set a flush burning along the Warden's otherwise pale skin. She reached out and grabbed for a washcloth as well as some brown soap that smelled like an apothecary. She used it sparingly under her arms and under her breasts, washing away the sweat that had accumulated there, as well as under her nails and between her toes. She dragged the washcloth over her arms and down her legs, and scrubbed furiously at the back of her neck. She was about to start on her back when Loghain knelt down at the edge of the tub behind her and gently plucked the cloth from her hands. He dipped it into the water, and first wiping away the remnants of shaving cream on his face, he scrubbed at her scarred shoulders and down the column of her spine.

"You don't have to," she said quietly, looking over her shoulder at him.

But Loghain shook his head, a half-smile on his lips. "And if I want to?"

"Then I won't stop you." The Warden curled forward and let out a small sound of delight as he massaged her, the warmth of his fingers felt easily through the cooling water on the cloth.

"Are you planning on washing your hair?" he asked as he sluiced water over her shoulders, wetting the base of the braid she had pulled over a hard, white shoulder.

"I was." The Warden fingered the ends of her hair. "Would you like to do it for me?"

"It would be fitting payment."

"Payment?" The Warden raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For the time that you bathed me," he replied in a low voice. "Back in Port Fenn."

"Oh!" The Warden burst out into a smile. "I had," she said in a low voice, "almost forgotten."

"I," Loghain leaned forward so that he was resting against her wet back, his mouth near her ear, "haven't forgotten."

"Tell me," she smirked at him with lowered eyelashes, "that it was the best bath you ever had."

"No." Loghain chuckled when he heard her squawk in indignation.

"And why not?"

"Because I know what you're like Aurora," he said, slowly pulling her braid over her shoulder and untying the band that held it together. "When you think you've won, you move onto something else." He ran his fingers through the links of the braid, slowly unraveling the golden, but oily strands.

"Do you fear that I will move onto something else? _Someone _else?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Loghain raised an eyebrow, his half-smile never leaving his face. "And how is that good?"

"Because I know you, Loghain," she echoed, staring at his reflection in the black bath water between her knees. "If you think you are in danger of losing, you fight even harder."

Loghain flicked his tongue into the divot in his bottom lip. His fingers had now undone the braid, and his fingers were flirting with the leather tie of her eye patch. With careful fingers, he slipped it off her head and placed it on the floor beside the tub. He ran his battle callused hands through her hair and over her scalp. He freed hair that was trapped by dirt and rubble and oil, peeling it away from a scalp that had been soaked by many days' sweat. He massaged her scalp and parted strands of hair that were stuck together, before gently nudging her forward in the bath so that she would have enough room to submerge herself.

The Warden turned over her shoulder to look at him, and then made a motion for him to scoot away from the tub. Loghain looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Do you really think," he asked in some disdain, "that I would _hold _you under water?"

"I like living," she replied back airily.

Loghain rolled his eyes, grumbled, and moved back to where he had originally been sitting. He watched the Warden lean back in the tub, first her head and neck, and then her pretty round breasts disappearing into the water. Her arms splashed out as she moved them over her head to tangle in her hair, scrubbing her fingers vigorously over her locks to remove as much dirt as she could before washing it properly. When she resurfaced again, Loghain was waiting for her by the rim of the tub, her comb in one hand and the soap in the other. When the Warden nodded her head and gave her assent, he placed the comb on the bath's edge and lathered the soap between his hands before running them through her hair.

He did not much appreciate the scent of the soap, but it cleaned her hair up well enough, and washed out easily. Loghain had also brought the tin that his razor and lather had been sitting on, and this he used to ladle water over the Warden's head to save her from ducking under once more. He ran the comb through her hair, then rinsed it, then ran the comb through it again, and rinsed it some more, until at last his commander's hair shone glossy and black in the candle light of the room.

Sensing he was done, the Warden settled against the rim of the tub, her head resting against Loghain's shoulder. She stared up at the ceiling with her good eye, a look of contentment on her face. "Thank you," she said gently, "for the bath."

"I know you enjoy being clean."

"Habits," she replied offhand. She reached her hands back and stroked his cheek, feeling how smooth the skin was from his shave. "I daresay your skin is softer than mine."

"I doubt it. There are..." Loghain looked down at the expanse of wet Warden that he could see beneath the bath water, "parts of you that are infinitely softer than my weather beaten face."

"Oh?" The Warden smirked, because she liked this game. "_Show me._"

Loghain was well aware what those two words meant, but just like every other man that the Warden had used them on before, he was powerless to resist their call. Loghain trailed a hand over her shoulder and let fingers accustomed to holding a sword and shield graze over skin that should have been accustomed to silk and lace, and yet was not. He tickled the side of a breast and then, almost impetuously, he squeezed one of the nipples that taunted him. The Warden let out a small cry of surprise at the pinch.

"That wasn't nice," she scolded.

"I am not nice," he replied. It was something that the Warden had told him before; and it was something that bore repeating. They were both not nice.

Loghain's hand continued to wander, forcing him downward over the swell of her stomach which was scarred but also sensitive and he felt the muscles flare underneath his fingertips. To reach perhaps her softest of places, Loghain had to shift awkwardly onto one knee, wrapping his leg around the side of the tub. But it was well worth the pain, for her silky folds parted beneath his fingers.

"This he," he ground out, "is much softer."

"And do you know what is _almost _as hard as your will?" The Warden shut her eye.

"I have a suspicion." Loghain rubbed and circled at her bud slowly, dancing away and dipping into her channel when he felt the Warden squirm beneath his palm. "And you don't have to say it." There was something quite vulgar in seeing a woman the Warden's age use coarse language. He hoped Anora didn't use it.

The Warden only hummed her response, her fingers coming up to rest on the rims on either side of the tub. She squeezed her fingers whenever he touched or stroked something within her, and sighed and moaned her delight. Little murmurs of, "yes, yes," erupted as Loghain slow circle suddenly increased, his finger flicking and rubbing at her bud with greater force and speed. Her legs tensed as she prepared for the unfurling of her spring, the release of her mortal coil, but when her shattering was imminent Loghain stopped. "Bastard," she hissed in frustration.

Loghain kissed the curve of her neck. "That isn't a very nice thing to say."

"I am not very nice."

"You _feel _very nice," and Loghain slipped first one finger, then two knuckles deep inside her. His wrist twisted awkwardly and the water soaked the sleeve of the shirt he had rolled up his forearm, but he felt her tighten around him at the intrusion and knew it was all worth it.

"As would you," she countered, "were _you _in me."

Loghain ran his thumbnail over her core and watched her hips buck. He did it again and saw the same reaction and smirked when he looked to her hand saw the knuckles had gone white. "Perhaps later." He slowly withdrew his fingers and plunged them back in again, and he repeated those slow, rhythmic movements until she slipped her own hand beneath the bathwater. Loghain felt her move his thumb aside as she ran her own long fingers over her sex, touching and caressing herself in that place that she felt Loghain was neglecting. With the Warden knowing exactly where she liked to be touched and how, it wasn't long before she had her chest heaving and her eyes closed.

It twinged on Loghain's pride to know that his own efforts were...less than satisfactory. "Tell me, Aurora: what are you doing?" he whispered in her ear, kissing her cheek affectionately.

"Pleasuring myself," she replied dryly.

Loghain grunted and put his palm over her fingers, trapping their movement. "_How_? How do you like being touched? _Show me._"

She raised an eyebrow at the command, but licked her lips and nodded. Grasping Loghain's hand at the wrist and pulling him out from inside her, she placed her hand over his and hovered the tip of his middle finger over her bud. "Slowly at first," she said in a soft voice, and she traced his fingertip around the outer edge of her arousal in a slow, languid movement. "And then," she drew his fingertip around in a faster circle, "build speed. You had it right the first time."

Loghain nodded.

"Your fingers in me alone," and this she said with a slight reprimand, "would not be enough to undo me. Do not take offense."

"None taken," and it was his turn to be dry, and then smug, as he followed the Warden's instructions to the letter. He had her sighing again within a matter of minutes, and she turned her head so that her cheek was resting on his shoulder and her forehead in the curve of his neck.

"Loghain," she murmured, "I'm -"

He did not need to hear her words to know. Her release came with the fluttering of eyelashes and a half-strangled breath, her back arching, before she fell bonelessly back against the wall of the tub. Loghain rinsed his hand in the bathwater and did not lament his pruned skin. He shook his hand off by his knee, and then traced the contour of the Warden's cheek affectionately.

"Did that," he smirked, "meet with your approval?"

"Yes," she said with a wide smile. Her cheeks were flushed pink. "Very much so."

Loghain planted a kiss on her temple and let her rest in his arms for as long as she wanted. The ache in his knees was easily outdone by the ache in his groin, which was pressed unhappily against the metal of the bathtub.

"Will you get me my towel?" asked the Warden sweetly. She looked up at him with her large grey eye, though her coy expression was belied by the glistening of her white, soapy breasts and the nipples that spread across their tips like twin pink moons.

Loghain licked his lips again and nodded. He stood with some difficulty and turned to reach for the towel that she had draped over the edge of the screen. He heard a splash of water behind him, and he turned back to find the Warden standing wet, and by the look of certain attributes, cold in front of him. He offered her the towel with a hand that was less than steady, and with eyes that wanted to look everywhere but her face.

The Warden took the towel with a wide smile and wrapped it under her arms. The towel was short, and she knew it. It was long enough to skirt the tops of her thighs, but did little to hide the thick patch of curls between them. It also rode over the swell of her rear, refusing to hide her pale, well-muscled flanks.

"The water is cold," she said, eyeing him up and down, "but it is still mostly clean, if you'd like to use it."

"I..." Loghain swallowed, "may make use of it, yes."

"And maybe," the Warden stepped over the rim of the tub and towards him, "you would like my help?"

Loghain did not have time to respond, since he found himself wrapped in scarred, white arms and petal soft lips. His hands fell against the rough spun fabric of the cloth she'd draped herself in, and he bunched the fabric up to the small of her back as he let a hand slip to grasp at her rear. The door to the room was locked; only one (or two) patrons could use the room at a time, so there was no sense in leaving the door open while it was occupied. Thus, Loghain wasn't afraid that Carver might accidentally wander in and, seeing the woman that was his idol being thrown against a wall and taken roughly against it, lose his mind. As he was without fear, Loghain was also without many of his reservations, and it appeared the Warden who was grinding her hips against the bulge in his trousers didn't have any either.

In a beautiful ballet of bare and booted feet, the Warden maneuvered Loghain around the edge of the tub and to the barrel that passed as a seat. She forced him to sit, and then clambered atop him; the tips of her toes balanced against the floor as she rocked against him and pushed his back against the wall. "Do you mind," she whispered, "if I have my wicked way with you here?" She let her tongue trail a path down his neck and then nipped at the hollow of his throat.

"I couldn't stop you," Loghain growled out in response, "not even if I wanted to." Her wet hair and towel had soaked his shirt, which was fitting punishment, since he had left her in much the same state (which he felt through the cotton of his breeches).

"Good." She flashed him a smile and sat back on the tops of his thighs. Her fingers were flirting with the laces that kept his pants closed.

There had been paintings of water nymphs in the Orlesian palace, of women with black hair, lustrous eyes as dark as onyx, and skin like ivory, dappled in water droplets and exotic river flowers. All the Warden was missing were the flowers, though Loghain did his best to replicate the red blossoms by decorating her skin with red welts courtesy of his overeager mouth. She gave up the fight with his laces and twined her arms around his neck, offering her own to his lips in the process. In such a position, it was easy for Loghain to slowly pull the towel away from her body and wrap himself around her nakedness. He splayed a hand across her lower back and dragged her close, bumping her over his arousal.

"You want it here?" he asked her, pausing in the kisses he was passing over her face and neck.

"Mhm," she flashed him a wicked smile, her lips red and swollen. She tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and brought her forehead against his. "You don't have to do anything; leave all the work to me."

Loghain raised an eyebrow. "And the laces?"

"Well," the Warden's smile turned girlish, "if you could help with those, I would be much obliged."

Grunting his assent, Loghain helped her wiggle back over his thighs and worked on unfastening the breeches that he had tied perhaps too vigorously for a jaunt to the baths. The knot he'd created was several layers deep, and he was having trouble untying it due to the breathy whines the Warden was making at having to wait. "You'll get it, girl," he scolded, flashing dark blue eyes up to her.

The Warden only laughed and leaned in to kiss the top of his nose. "I most certainly will."

When the laces came free, the Warden stood and took a step backward, giving Loghain enough room to shimmy out of his pants and his smalls. As soon as they had fallen to his ankles she was upon once more, pushing him back down. She did not immediately crawl into his lap, instead, she simply hooked one leg over his thighs and slowly descended, her hands between her legs to grasp and guide him. She was ready from his earlier care in the bath - more than ready, and with Loghain shifting backwards to angle his hips, she enveloped him. Crown to root, he slid in with little resistance, and when he met the mouth of her womb and she was unable to take anymore, Loghain let out a shuddering sigh.

They made love slowly, sharing kisses filled with lazy scrapes of their tongues. Loghain's hands were on the Warden's hips, not to guide, but to follow. Her hips rocked against him in shallow thrusts, and her body squeezed him in ways that a mortal man was not meant to withstand. Loghain's entire world became a hot, wet vice, a symphony of slapping flesh and slicked, rubbed skin. The Warden's breath warmed his heated cheeks, puffing out as sweat mingled on her skin with her bathwater, rolling down her forehead and over the tip of her nose as she rode him. On straining tiptoes she thrust and angled, squeezing and straining her muscles, while all the while she looked at Loghain with her good and bad eyes. Loghain saw his face reflected in the milky white orb of her false eye, and he wondered if the Warden saw him the same way: old and hawkish. He did not have long to dwell on it; release crashed down upon him.

He grasped her hips and bucked upwards, spilling himself into her with three loud groans and a grunt of, "_Aurora._" Though he was complete, the Warden continued to squeeze and he bucked reflexively when she tightened around him. She nuzzled his nose with hers and kissed him gently on the mouth, unwilling to part from him. The Warden dropped her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, letting Loghain absently stroke her hair as reality returned to him. As he softened, he felt his release slowly slide downward along his length, until splatters of it fell along his thighs.

"I should let you clean up," the Warden murmured into his ear. "And," there was a smile in her voice, "check on Carver and make sure that Dane hasn't won all his gold." She laughed when she felt Loghain's chuckle rumble through her, and dropped a quick kiss on his cheek before she stood. She swung her leg over his lap and gave him a wink before she sauntered around the bath and behind the screen where her clothes were. One by one, the clothes that had been draped over the screen's edge disappeared and from behind it emerged a fully clothed Warden who was ringing out her hair.

Loghain stepped out of his pants and pulled off his shirt and dumped his clothes on the barrel where he had been sitting. He slipped into the cold bath water just as the Warden kicked the door of the room shut behind her. His last sight of her was her hands tangled up in her hair, pulling it through the leather thong she held between her fingers. It made him smile, because he realized that she only wore her hair down for him.

8-8-8

"Amaranthine!" The Warden inhaled the salty, sea air of Ferelden deeply. "What a relief it is to be home!"

The Grey Wardens, Dane, and the two horses were standing on the edge of one of Amaranthine City's docks. Before them lay dirty wooden planks and sullen Fereldans all busy going about their work, but every grim stare shot their way was as good as a smile. The docks were teaming with life in the middle of the afternoon. Ships of all sizes were having cargo hauled out on ropes and winches, and men in uniforms and men in rags thumped along the pier with their arms full of goods.

The docks appeared no worse for the darkspawn invasion that had ruined much of the city proper, and it was not until the Wardens made their way up the winding path and into the city itself did they see the destruction with their own eyes. Many of the neighborhoods that Loghain and the Warden had visited during their brief stay in Amaranthine were missing. In their place lay blackened stones and scorched earth, but also planks of orange wood and vats of muddy water. It was apparent that the neighborhoods had been burnt away, but had been done so in a methodical fashion, for it was not merely one or two houses that were being rebuilt, but entire blocks of houses; some not even adjacent to each other.

There were several men toiling away within a wood and stone foundation, and the Warden passed the reins of her horse to Carver and went over to speak with them.

"My good men!" She said with a wide smile, "Tell me about your efforts!"

One of the men squinted his eyes at hers, and the Warden recognized him as being one of the leaders of the carpenter's guild in Amaranthine. "Lady Cousland? Oh, beg your pardon, _Arlessa _Cousland... is that you?" When he saw her nod, he broke out into a smile of his own. "Maker bless me, lass, but I'm glad you're back."

At the man's earnest tone, at his _eagerness _to see her, the Warden was nearly struck dumb. After her time abroad, she had forgotten what it was like to feel welcome. But in Ferelden, she _was. _The people here wanted her, they needed her, and it was only genuine feeling that she felt in her breast. She did not have to hide her motivations, did not have to wear a mask or pretend she felt something that she did not. Here, she could be herself. She could have broken down and wept, if she was that sort of woman... but since she was not, she merely allowed her shoulders to slump and her mask to crack, and let a piece of her that she had thought she'd lost slip through.

"I am glad to be back," she sent a gaze filled with heartfelt longing at the reconstruction efforts around her. "I am sorry that I was not here to..." she licked her lips and cringed, "stop this. I won't leave again; not if I can avoid it."

"Don't feel sorry for this, lass," the carpenter placed a sweaty hand to his brow and shook his head. "It weren't your fault. No one in the city thinks that. It was the damned Orlesian who did it. She brought the bad luck upon us."

"Warden Commander Caron?" asked the Warden politely, and seeing the man bare his teeth at the name, she stifled a smile of delight. Perhaps her greatest fear, of being reviled by the Arling for abandonment, had been laid to rest. "What did she do?"

The carpenter spat angrily on the ground. "She poked her nose into some hole and stirred up the hornet's nest, she did. She brought them all out into the daytime, and led them all on us. It was revenge for losing the war!"

The men in the bones of the house all nodded their agreement, adding their voices.

"It's her fault, it was."

"Orlais was trying to weaken our port; give them a reason to not to trade with us anymore!"

"She told the beasties to attack us!"

"Peace, my good men," the Warden raised her gauntlet, "peace. I can assure you that whatever Warden Commander Caron did was not meant to hurt Ferelden. Whatever she discovered, she has most likely eradicated. And if she has not, then _I _will." She took a step towards the guild leader and then placed her hand on his shoulder. "If you need any help at all, just tell me. Whatever you need to rebuild this city, to make it better, let me know. I am your Arlessa; it is my duty to assist you."

"We could use a lot," the guild master said, "a great deal, Arlessa Cousland."

"I will call a council of builders within the next week," she said to him, looking him straight in the eye, "tell the other guild masters. Have them bring their list of materials, as well as an estimated cost of those materials. I will make sure all needs are met."

"The Maker smiled upon us when he sent you to your mother," the guild master said. "Our very own Hero of Ferelden, and our Arlessa at that."

The Warden found it appropriate to blush, and did so. She was honored by the man's words, and still elated that they neither blamed her, nor held her responsible. "I only did what was necessary." Her smile was wry. "Any of us would have."

"Aye, that may be true, but it was you who saved Ferelden, and you who should be taking the credit." The guild master looked at her warmly.

"You're too kind." The Warden looked over her shoulder and back to the road where Loghain and Carver were standing, waiting for her. She let out a small sigh. "As much as I would like to stay and talk, I have duties to attend to at the Vigil. Hopefully, I will see you at the council in a few days' time?"

"You will, Arlessa," the guild master nod. "You will."

"Excellent." And flashing him a smile, the Warden turned and went back to the road. Dane barked when he saw her and wagged his tail, and she patted his neck fondly. She took the reins back from Carver and tossed her head in the direction of the gates denoting Amaranthine's exit. "Come along," she sang, leading her horse. It was not until they were a good mile and a half out of the city that she shared what she had learnt. "I spoke with the guild master of the carpenter's guild. Apparently, Amaranthine City believes that Commander Caron roused the darkspawn intentionally."

"No doubt," Loghain said seriously, "they suspect that she had Orlesian motives behind it."

The Warden nodded. "Indeed. I've summoned a council of builders - or at least I will very shortly -to discuss the repair efforts and what is needed. When I've assessed our needs, I should be able to start requesting and allocating money appropriately."

"A sound plan."

The Warden beamed at Loghain's agreement. "I am glad you think so! I would like you to come with me."

"Out of the question."

"Does he _always _do that?" asked Carver loudly, shooting Loghain a dark glare out of e corner of his eye. "I thought it was insubordination to refuse a superior officer's order."

"When she frames it as an order, not a request," Loghain drawled, "I'll accept it." Loghain was far too old to play games with the younger man, though he was sorely tempted to order him to be silent, and to see how long it would take for him to disobey.

"He does," the Warden said, "and yes, Carver, it can be. And, Loghain, that _was _an order." She gave her Second a sidelong glance. "I want you, armor shining, by my side at that council."

"I'm not a builder, Aurora."

"But you understand requisitions, yes? And you must have entertained the mason's guild several times while you were in Denerim with King Maric. New quarters do not construct themselves without the strict approval of the King and his Council."

Loghain narrowed his eyes. "You know enough already that you don't need me."

"Then don't say anything at all," Carver sent Loghain a nasty smile, "just glare at them until they agree with her."

"From a superior officer to his subordinate," Loghain sent Carver one of the glares he was referring to, the cold, penetrating gaze, "what would you say, boy, if I ordered you to be quiet?"

Carver opened his mouth to say something, then immediately snapped it shut. He sent Loghain a baleful stare, and it took him several minutes to formulate his response, which interrupted a pleasant conversation between the two senior Grey Wardens about the lovely weather. "I'd say you were abusing your power."

"Took you that long to come up with an answer?" Loghain smirked.

"I was thinking!"

The Warden chuckled. "Did it hurt, Carver?"

"Oh, ha ha," Carver kicked at a stray rock on the road, "you're so funny, Commander."

"I _am,_" she responded. She was close enough so that she could nudge Carver gently with her shoulder. "I am glad you noticed."

Carver only gave her a weak chuckle in response, and Loghain said nothing as she created a fragile peace between them. They walked the remainder of the distance to the gates in silence. Dane pranced around their legs and whined for attention, not stopping until he had received at least one ear scratch from each of the three Grey Wardens. When the gates of the Vigil came into sight, he let out a loud bark and bounded towards them, bouncing back and forth between the Wardens and the walls.

Truth be told, no one could call the walls walls, or the gates gates, and the Wardens' faces fell when they saw how the darkspawn had ripped the fortress' defenses down to its very roots. What used to be heavy stone piled high were now stone ruins that were flanked by high wooden stakes up until the gate house. The gate house was completely destroyed, and the great gates of the Vigil had been bent and warped almost in half. They leaned forward, almost as though they were bowing, and were kept in place only by the thick metal supports and sturdy dwarven hinges that had been installed shortly before the Warden had left.

Entering the courtyard, it was evident that Vigil's Keep itself had also suffered serious structural damage. There were badly patched holes in many of the walls, and it looked as though one tower had collapsed completely. Many of the small shops that had begun to take up residence within the Vigil's walls looked brand new, and it was likely that they had been destroyed in the great siege that had taken place. What had once been a declining, and yet perfectly serviceable building upon the Warden, Dane, and Loghain's departure now looked as though it had aged five hundred years.

The Warden swore under her breath, and was not reprimanded for it because Loghain uttered the same curse. Carver merely stared at the state of the keep with an expression of open-mouthed shock.

"Where will you find the money to fix _this_?" he exclaimed, pointing at all the gaping holes with their heavily boarded insides.

"Wherever I can," was the Warden's grim reply. Casting her grey eye beyond just the buildings in the courtyard, she saw the mass of people who had assembled to greet them. Stepping through the ruined gates and towards the crowd, there were many familiar faces: Seneschal Varel's grim, heavy jawed face stood out in the front and beside him was the slimmer and younger Garevel. Next to Garevel was Cauthrien, and behind Cauthrien were several armed men and women that could have only been the other Grey Wardens. They looked exactly as Andraste had described them...only that there were fewer than she expected. The man in the fur trimmed robes was Anders, and the red bearded dwarf was Oghren, the female dwarf with the tattoos was Sigrun, but there was no sign of the female elf Velanna, nor any sign of Nathaniel Howe.

"Commander," Varel stepped forward and inclined his head, and gestured for one of the servants who had come with him to take her horse and her gear, "welcome home to the Vigil."

"I am glad to be back, though," she cast her eyes around again, "it is not quite how I remember it."

"She's had a rough spell," he explained. "No doubt you would like a debriefing?"

"I had one from Commander Caron, but," she nodded her head, "I would be happy to hear the tale in more detail."

"I see you've also had a rough spell," Varel added more softly, referring to her missing eye and the scar that had formed at her jaw.

"Ups and downs, Varel," she smiled at him. She turned to the three Grey Wardens, watching out of the corner of her eye how Cauthrien had approached Loghain and was speaking to him in quiet, hushed tones. In response, she waved her hand for Carver to come close to her and join her. Carver did so very quickly, as did Dane (who normally was the recipient of such a motion). "Now," she extended her smile to the three Grey Wardens, "how do you do?"

Anders only flashed her a wary half-smile in response, while Sigrun looked on in surprise. Oghren, on the other hand, leered openly and slapped his thigh at her.

"Oghren's doing _just _fine!"

"Good." The Warden's eye narrowed. "Because you are going _home._"

Oghren's face fell. "That's not how it works, Commander. I'm a Warden now. I get to stay and fight darkspawn! Hehe!"

"Sigrun, Anders," the Warden addressed them crisply, "he has a wife and child, yes?"

Sigrun nodded. "He does. He carves little figures out of wood for his son. Horses and men and bears."

"And schleets," added Anders, throwing a smirk at Oghren's direction. "Though he never _quite _got it right."

"You shut your mouth, mage," Oghren pointed a thick finger at him. "You were just as drunk."

"And just as scared," added Sigrun with a snort of humor. "It's a good thing you don't wear pants, Anders."

"I do too wear pants!"

The Warden coughed politely, drawing the attention back on her. "I'll hear no protestations; pack your things and go, Oghren. And if you do not," she fixed the dwarf with a stern stare, "I shall write to Felsi, and come have her join us here at the Vigil, if she feels so inclined."

Oghren went as white as milk at her words, and his mouth, which was usually so quick to spout a vulgarity, went slack.

"I'll," the Warden raised her eyebrows at his reaction, "write the letter after supper..."

"Bah, fine." Oghren threw a hand up in the air. "She won't come anyway. Won't even sodden talk to me. Doesn't even respond to my letters."

"Perhaps because your hand writing is illegible?" suggested Anders. "You should have taken me up on my offer; I would have happily written them for you."

"Hey," Carver pointed at Anders, "a mouthy mage. Never seen one of your kind before."

"No," Anders agreed, running two long fingers over the heavy stubble at his chin, "you probably haven't. _My _kind is exceptionally rare."

"Really? Nah." Carver shook his head. "Kirkwall is full of mages like you."

"Must be a fun place." The smile Anders shot at Carver said otherwise.

"More fun the Vigil," the Warden interrupted, "will be, should I see unnecessary fighting. _Carver,_" she turned her eye to the Warden at her side, "_Anders,_" and then to the lanky mage who stood in front of her, "am I clear? We are _family. _No matter _what _we are."

"Clear," Anders said in a smooth voice, the glimmer of a smirk on his lips.

"Crystal," Carver returned, though he did not smile. He instead looked sullenly at Anders, and then turned his attention to Sigrun.

"Anders, Oghren, and Sigrun," the Warden licked her lips, "I was expecting three more. Velanna, Kristoff, and Nathaniel."

"Velanna disappeared during the battle for Vigil's Keep," Sigrun said sadly. "We never found her body, just her staff. Nathaniel said he saw her disappear underneath some rocks, but when we cleared it, there was nothing. Just the staff."

"Did you not look for her?"

"Where would we look?" Sigrun frowned. "There wasn't a trail leading to her, or anything. She just wasn't there. And even if we could look for her, have you seen the _size _of the forests here?" Sigrun's eyes went wide. "They're so big!"

"I..." The Warden pursed her lips. "I suppose. And what of the other two?"

"Kristoff...Justice no longer exists," explained Anders. "He...died. Also," he added quickly, "at the battle for the Vigil. I...was wounded. He gave his life to save me." His brown eyes fell to his hands which were knotted in front of him, and he stared at them in deep concentration.

"You must have been great friends," the Warden said quietly.

"I think we were." Anders's smile was brittle.

"And Nathaniel?"

This time it was Varel who spoke. "Warden Nathaniel could not be roused from his chambers when I told him to muster in the courtyard for your arrival."

"Oh could he not be? How droll." The Warden shook her head. "He must have been up very late last night, if he is not even awake by midday."

"He's awake," Sigrun said quietly. "He was at breakfast."

"And he came to lunch," added Oghren. "Ate every soddin' piece of bread there was."

"And two hours later he is not here." Varel gave a nod as the summary of Nathaniel's behavior was concluded. "I am sorry for his disrespect, Commander."

"You needn't feel sorry for anything, Varel. What Nathaniel chooses to do - "

" - is Nathaniel's business."

All eyes flashed to the stairs leading to the great hall of the Vigil, where Nathaniel Howe stood. He was dressed in black leather as was his custom, and his long hair was tied back in to a braid that fell down his back. A bow and quiver poked over his shoulders, and two long knives were strapped to a belt at his hips. His hawkish features were sharp in the sunlight, and his pale eyes glittered with menacing intent. He spoke with an accent that was common to the Free Marches, which Carver whispered into the Warden's ear to be helpful.

"So sorry, _Commander,_" he said, "that I'm _late._"

"Only by a few moments," the Warden replied evenly.

"I didn't want to come out," he admitted, taking a slow step down the stairs, "but I just _had _to see the Hero of Ferelden myself: the Great Aurora Cousland, Commander of the Grey. The _Arlessa _ of Amaranthine." Every title he used brought him one step closer to the Grey Wardens below him. "I've heard people talk about you. I expected you to be seven feet tall, with lightning bolts coming from your eyes. I'm disappointed." He was now on packed earth and cobblestones of the courtyard, and moved with precise movements to the Warden. He stalked around her, "I expected more."

"That is the problem with expectations," The Warden watched Nathaniel circle around her through her enchanted eye; she did not have to see him to know exactly where he was. "And with rumors."

"Do you know what the rumors say, Commander?" asked Nathaniel in a low voice.

The Warden raised her eye to the bright blue sky above her. "No, but I imagine you will tell me." Her cloak snapped in a sudden wind, and she felt a hot flush of adrenaline pump through her veins. She was prepared to fight; prepared to fight in front of all the eyes that were watching her. When Nathaniel did not speak she inhaled deeply and rolled her shoulders so that her pauldrons creaked audibly. "Shortly, if you please."

"That you _killed _my father. My _family._"

"So the rumor mill is right for once." She let out an easy chuckle. "How surprising."

"So you don't deny it?" On feet that made no sound, Nathaniel came nose to nose with the Warden.

He was taller than she was, but also thinner. He looked very much like an older version of Thomas, and so there was no denying the family resemblance. But then, she had never once met Nathaniel Howe, or heard of him, not even during all the years that her father had known his. Whoever Nathaniel was...he was a mystery, and his origins and purpose needed to be known if his danger was to be removed. Knowledge was power; it had the ability to save, condemn, and convert. If Nathaniel could explain the truth of his existence, then he could also pull the teeth from the lion's mouth that was his palpable, brooding anger.

The Warden quirked her mouth into an expression of indifference, her bottom lip puffing out. She shook her head. "I do not; I have nothing to be ashamed of." Dane let out a growl from her side, and she planted her hand on his head to quiet and still him.

"You are proud of killing innocents?"

"You," the Warden fixed Nathaniel with a cool stare, "have a truly naive view of the world, Nathaniel Howe, if you can think that. Or you have deafened yourself, at least, to any truths but the ones _you _want to hear."

"What other truths are there? You murdered my father in vengeance for his actions against your Orlesian-loving family, and then you murdered my brother, sister, and mother when they came to see you brought to justice."

The Warden put a gauntlet to the side of her mouth and looked at Nathaniel curiously. There was no time for long, drawn out debates or arguments over intent. Such things would get resolved later, either in bloodshed or in private. Not one to mince her words - and certainly not one to retreat under insult, she drove her arrow straight and true, and hoped that Nathaniel would, in his pride, tell her what she needed to know. "You speak about Thomas and Delilah, even your mother and father, as though you knew them. Which," she canted her head to one side, "is odd, since they did not know you. I suspect I knew them better than you ever did." She saw his nostrils flare and knew she'd hit her mark, "so, tell me: are you an imposter to the Howe name, some orphan who adopted it in hopes of claiming what _very _little is left of the Howe fortune? Or are you Rendon's bastard son, out for revenge against a father and family he never knew out of some romantic sense of belonging? Do tell me, so that I know whether you are a fortune hunter or just simply _ignorant._"

"They _knew _who I was," he hissed. "They wrote me letters."

"How curious. They never spoke of you during Yules and Satinalias."

"You lie."

"No," the Warden smiled, "_you _lie. Or," she continued, _sotto voce, _"You were _lied _to, which I am quite willing to believe."

Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak but he was quickly cut off by the Warden raising her hand.

"As much as I would like to continue to argue with you, Nathaniel," she said sternly, "there simply is not enough time in either of our days for it. You are a Grey Warden: I am your Warden Commander. Our roles are very simple: I lead, you follow. You do not have to like me," she turned to look at the other Grey Wardens, "none of you do. However, I do ask that you _respect _my orders."

Nathaniel spat on the ground. "Respect _your _orders? Have you be _my_ commander? No." He shook his head, and his black braid went swinging behind his back. "_My _commander is in Orlais at this very moment. You're not Andraste Caron. You shouldn't even be alive."

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone standing nearby.

"And yet I am. I will not tolerate your disrespect, Nathaniel." The Warden gave him a cold stare. "I expect an apology for it."

Nathaniel only laughed low in his throat and shook his head. "Not from me, _Cousland._" He sent a look over his shoulder to where Anders and Sigrun were standing. Sigrun was shaking her head from side to side, but Anders merely gave him a shrug of his feathered shoulders. Turning back to look at the Warden, he spat on the ground again and walked by her, letting his shoulder jostle against her roughly. His long legs strode towards the Vigil's still open gates, his feet refusing to make a sound as he stalked away.

"Nathaniel, no," Sigrun cried out after him, "don't do this!"

"I can't stay here," he growled back. "Not while she's here."

There were murmurs of, "he's deserting," from the crowd of Grey Wardens and Vigil's servants.

Deserting the Grey Wardens was a laughable endeavor: no matter where you were, the Calling _always _came for you. However, there were times when Grey Wardens left without dispensation from the First Warden, either turning traitor or simply abandoning the vows they took (of course, sometimes dispensation was granted without being asked for: Alistair was one such example, as the First though it more prudent to have a bastard former Grey Warden prince alive than dead). Such Grey Wardens were considered dangerous, because they carried with them secrets about the Grey Wardens that could not be shared, and if they were not loyal, and they could not be trusted, and they could not be brought back into the fold, then they had to be silenced. In Val Royeaux as it was in Weisshaupt, the punishment for a captured deserter was an early "Calling" in the Deep Roads, so that the offender could join his brothers that had gone before him and learn what it truly meant to be a Grey Warden. However, the Warden saw no reason to stand on rituals and pompously false brotherhood; deserters would hang in Ferelden.

But she was not eager to hang Nathaniel Howe. As much as she disliked him for the sheer fault of his birth, the fact that he was an enigma within Rendon Howe's web of relations intrigued her. She would never discover the mystery of his birth, and why he had been kept a secret, if he was dead and swinging from the gallows. And she wanted to know what that mystery was, though not as much as she wanted to prove to him that he was wrong, and that she was _right. _There would be something satisfying in seeing this Howe Champion, a man who had come to kill her in the dead of night, admit that he had been mistaken about his own blood. Yes, to see Nathaniel Howe renounce his family's virtues would be satisfying indeed, more satisfying than his death. The Warden knew that the key to breaking him was buried somewhere in his past with his father, and if she could find it, if she could expose to Nathaniel what a terrible stock of men he came from, then she would have won.

But she couldn't win if he died, and as soon as he stepped foot outside the Vigil's gates, she would have to sentence him.

A brilliant idea struck her, one that required no apologies and no knee bending and begging.

"Well, if there was any doubt before, there isn't any now. We certainly know you're a Howe," the Warden said loudly. "You run away like one."

Nathaniel halted mid-step.

The Warden slowly sauntered towards him, letting her footsteps echo loudly in the courtyard. Many more footsteps were echoing behind her, as the crowd that had gathered to greet her at the Vigil followed in her wake. "Yes, Nathaniel Howe, flee to some dark hole. Retreat like a rat." She stopped an arm's length away. "Run. Do not face your fears."

He moved as fast as a viper, striking the side of her face with his fist so hard that the Warden staggered three steps backwards before she recovered. One of his rings had caught the corner of her mouth and slashed at the skin, and the Warden put a gauntlet to her lip and pulled it away to see her own blood. Dane as at her heels, hunched own and snarling at Nathaniel. He looked ready to spring; the only thing he needed was a command from his mistress, who with a sly smile on her lips and another look at her blood, didn't give it.

"So you do bleed," Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "Good."

"Garevel," the Warden said in a clear, crisp tone, her eye fixed firmly on Nathaniel, "have the men escort _Warden Nathaniel _to the cell he called home before Warden Commander Caron arrived. See that he is fed a guard's rations at the evening meal tonight." She licked at the blood in her mouth.

"Ser!" called Garevel, and the sound of feet running and crunching along the ground sounded behind the Warden.

"And, Varel, see to it that a post is staked in the courtyard. Fifteen lashes for Warden Nathaniel will be delivered in the morning - "

"Twelve," she heard Loghain say quietly from behind her.

"Twenty four lashes," she amended without looking at Loghain, masking her irritation of his meddling with a polite cough, "will be delivered in the morning for conduct unbecoming of a Grey Warden and striking a superior officer. This punishment is to be delivered by the hand of the acting Grey Warden Commander, which in this case is I."

"Not desertion?" asked Sigrun in surprise, the tattoos on her face blending together as she scrunched it in confusion. From the way she asked the question, it was apparent that Andraste had had the "desertion" talk with them.

"Of course not." The dwarf had come to stand beside the Warden, and the Warden gently placed a hand on her shoulder, her eye still not leaving Nathaniel's. "The penalty for desertion is death, but," she said in a voice as soft as silk, "you weren't deserting, were you, Nathaniel Howe? No, you were merely strolling in agitation towards the gate, weren't you? Your mind was confused; clouded with anger. I understand. I have troubled thoughts too."

Nathaniel didn't struggle as Garevel's men bound his hands tightly behind his back with rope. But that did not stop him from sending out a, "Void take you, _Commander,_" as they dragged him away to the underground cells of the Vigil.

"Such a charming young man." The Warden poked at her lip again, but did not wince. "Come." She turned on her heel and stalked through the crowd that had now tripled in size, and was filled with everyone from soldiers to scullery maids. "The sun is hot overhead. Let us go indoors, so that I may assess the extent of the damage inside the Vigil." She swept an arm out as she spoke and then made her way to the stairs and the double doors that sat atop them that led into the cool interior of the Vigil. Behind her trailed Dane and Sigrun, and then Oghren, while Varel fell into step beside a beautiful woman with hair like honey. Anders followed behind him warily, shooting glances off to the dungeon where Nathaniel was to be imprisoned. And behind Anders came Cauthrien and Loghain, who were speaking to each other in hushed tones and were wearing grave expressions. The Warden did not miss their intimacy and the way their foreheads almost touched as they spoke, for she could see them through her skull, her quartz eye giving her every shadowy detail of their appearance.

8-8-8

Even though she spent the rest of the day busy, there was one thought that pervaded the Warden's mind: she had never whipped a man before. She had, as a younger woman, idly toyed with whips and lassos against practice dummies, but she had never wielded them against another person - against a living thing. She had gone to the Vigil's library after a quiet dinner with her Grey Wardens and had looked for a book of military protocol, since she knew that Rendon had served in the Rebellion and must have had something like that amidst his shelves. She was sad to say that he did not.

And now, as she sat brushing out her hair, she debated padding out into the hallway and knocking on the door opposite hers and waking Loghain to see if he had anything say on the matter. She wouldn't, of course. They had gotten into a fight before she'd gone into her room, and she did not want him to think that this was her roundabout way of apologizing to him, seeking out his council to prove just how important he was to her. She licked her lips and frowned at her brush.

Loghain had _not _liked being reprimanded for undermining her authority in public. He had said it was an honest correction, a _humane _correction ("Have _you _ever been whipped, Aurora?"), that standard Ferelden military punishments were in increments of twelve. The Warden hadn't cared what his intent had been, only that next time he wanted to correct her, he could do it privately. She had told him that she wasn't above changing her mind, and that if he'd told her privately, she would have gladly reduced the sentence to twelve lashes the next morning. It would have worked in everyone's favor, had he displayed some _tact. _ Loghain had only shaken his head and told her to get some rest, because she'd need it tomorrow. She hadn't taken to _that _comment very favorably, and had sent him a stony look before shutting her door. There would be no sex. There would be absolutely no sex for a _long _time, if he continued with his attitude (and _no _Dane either).

It struck the Warden as absurd that she was worrying over the simple mechanics of whipping a man. Grasping the handle of her brush, she pointed her thumb towards its end, and then flicked her wrist. In her mind, the imaginary whip cracked. It was quite simple. On the morrow, she would hold the handle, point her thumb, and snap the whip forward. There was absolutely no reason for her to think that she would _miss _Nathaniel, or that she'd drop the whip, which were her two biggest fears. No one at the Vigil would take her seriously if they knew she couldn't even discipline them properly; she'd be a laughing stock. But no, there was no reason to worry. She knew how to hold a whip, how to aim it, the only thing she wasn't sure of was the correct amount of force to use, but she supposed that was part of Nathaniel's punishment.

When she settled into bed, Dane resting beneath one of her arms, she fell into a surprisingly deep and easy sleep, and she did not awaken until Varel was knocking on her door and informing her that the sun was almost up and that she should start getting ready. She poked her head out to tell him that she was awake, but when she did so he had already left. There was hot water waiting for her in a bowl in front of the door, brought there by Varel's own hand, and the Warden took this into her room and did not waste a single drop. The hot water was what she needed to wake up in the drafty rooms of the Vigil, and it pushed aside the chilly morning air as easily as the sun pushes through a light mist.

Dressing and strapping herself into her arms and armor, the Warden considered what to do with her hair. She thought to tie it up, but found that she had begun to miss wearing it down around her shoulders in the long, loose style that had been fashionable before the Blight. She made a compromise between the two, and made three braids of her hair on each temple, and then fastened their ends together behind her head with a thick, metal clasp. The braids served to keep her hair out of her eyes, but also allowed her the luxury of having her long hair left free. Slipping her eye patch (pearls and all) into place, she stood, grabbed her cloak, and fastening it to her armor, she made her way out the door with Dane following close behind her.

She put a hand on the pommel of her sword as she stalked through the silent corridors of the Vigil. Her boots scraped against the stones in the gloom, though they were not loud enough to wake any sleeping servants or Wardens - if indeed there were any present in the rooms on either side of her. Padding down a staircase and weaving through several more corridors, she entered the grand hall and then left by its double doors which swung open almost of their own accord, the Warden's hands barely falling upon them before they flew open into the morning air. She would have to do something about their hinges.

Descending the stairs and entering the courtyard, it looked as though she was the last to arrive. Loghain and Cauthrien were standing to the left of the stairs and looked to be in deep conversation with one another, and this is where Dane parted from her, trotting over to Loghain to where he demanded attention. The other Grey Wardens and Varel were at the right of the stairs, and each was looking grimly at the figure that was tied to the wooden post that had been dragged into the courtyard by Garevel's men. Nathaniel had been stripped to the waist, and the strong, white plains of his muscular back were there for all to see. His hair had been tied into a knot at the base of his neck to keep it out of the whip's way, though strands had broken free and were blowing around his face.

The Warden licked her lips and looked at Varel, who in turn looked at the whip that he had wrapped in his hand. He extended it to her, and she took it with steady fingers.

"Any suggestions?" she asked him in a quiet voice, the wind rippling around her.

"Go easy on the lad," Varel replied, eying Nathaniel. "Swing easy. You do not need much force to create harm with the whip. Point your thumb straight to the end of the whip, towards Nathaniel, and the whip will do the rest."

The Warden flashed him a small, but grateful smile, and strode to where Garevel was waiting for her several paces away from Nathaniel.

"Are you ready?" he asked her.

"Of course I am." Her tongue found the cut at the side of her mouth again, and she tasted her blood. She did not like it. "Nathaniel Howe," she called, "you are to receive twenty four lashes for conduct unbecoming of a Grey Warden and striking your superior officer. You have one minute to prepare yourself." She did not expect Nathaniel to say anything, and was grateful that she was right. She counted the seconds in her head, readying her grip and her stance the closer she got to the countdown's end. She put Nathaniel out of her mind, and when she reached sixty, she struck.

The tail of the whip cracked through the air and its tip sliced hard across Nathaniel's back. A thin line of blood formed, and then began to trickle down his spine.

"One," Garevel called.

The Warden snapped the whip again, this time with less force. The tip smacked against the middle of Nathaniel's back, but it did not draw blood.

"Two."

The Warden repeated her earlier movement, bringing the whip down across Nathaniel's lower back, this time. The tip sliced around one of his sides and dug in enough that Nathaniel let out a strangled grunt of pain. Blood formed from the lash.

"Three."

She inhaled and let the whip fly once more, trying to be easy with the swing as Varel had suggested. The tip lashed across Nathaniel's shoulders with a satisfying smack and he barked out something vulgar at the pain.

"Four."

She did it again, and the whip fell with the same force, only slightly lower. Nathaniel made no sound, but his boots were digging into the ground, twisting against the stones.

"Five."

The Warden had a rhythm now; her muscles _knew _what a correct release of the whip felt like. It was easy to replicate for the remaining lashes, though that did not stop the Warden from making a mistake every now and then and drawing blood where she ought not to have. The point was to punish, not to butcher, yet pulling those cries out of Nathaniel Howe's mouth when the whip bit too deeply was intensely satisfying. He'd drawn her blood, and she would draw his.

When the twenty-fourth stroke of the whip fell, the Warden passed the whip to Garevel. She needed it no longer; she had another role to fill now. She had to turn from Punisher to Healer, became Merciful where she had been Vengeful; she was a loving Grey Warden mother now. She walked over to the stake where Nathaniel was. He was only being supported by his arms, his legs having given way from the punishment. The air around her changed, became tangy with something bitter and arcane, and she saw that Anders had fallen into step beside her.

Coming to Nathaniel's side, the Warden crouched down and put her cool gauntlet along one of his muscular forearms. She stooped to see his face, and saw that his pale eyes were closed and his mouth was drawn in a tight line. He drew in shallow breaths, mindful of how the expansion of his chest pulled and stretched skin that was rippled with welts.

"Anders," she straightened and leaned in towards the mage. She brought her mouth close to his ear, watching the way he drew back as if he was afraid of touching her. "See to him. Heal him. But not completely. Let there always be scars."

Anders said nothing and nodded. His quick fingers went to work untying the ropes around Nathaniel's wrists while the Warden made her way back towards where her other Grey Wardens were standing. Her teeth tingled with the vibration of magic, and she turned over her shoulder to see a blue light glowing from Anders's hands. The gentle magic washed over Nathaniel's body, mending cuts and welts so evenly that not a trace of them could be seen. The only reminder of Nathaniel's painful ordeal was the drying blood. There was not a single scar to be seen on his body.

The mage was looking at her. He was _smiling._

The Warden smiled back. He had disobeyed her, and deliberately. But no one else knew that. Only he did, and she did. And when he smiled at her, it meant only one thing.

It meant war.

* * *

_Next up will be an Interlude! I believe it will be the famous and often referred to Habren-Wine incident, which started our Warden's Landsmeet banning trend. And after that, we return to our regularly scheduled program. (And look Scarlet, there's smut in there. Just for you. ;) )_

_To those of you who have concerns regarding Nathaniel within _Trovommi Amor_, you'll have to accept that its a bit AU. _ TA_ was started before DA:A was released, and by the time we learned of Delilah, and Thomas, and Nathaniel, it was far too late to do anything about it since _TA's _canon had already been established. Suspend your disbelief for me. It'll all work out. :)_

_Loves goes out to _Trovommi Amor's _readers, though extra special loves goes out to the reviewers who bumped us up to over 600 reviews with the last chapter. Here's to at least breaking 1,000 before the story ends! _


	48. Interlude XII

**Interlude XII: Sharp as a Knife (Ear)**

_When her father had told her, "Aurora, I think you should accompany me to Denerim this spring," she had not taken him seriously. The last time he had brought her to Denerim she'd been bored out of her mind, and had not failed to remind him of this during the entirety of their stay. Besides, what did he need her in Denerim for? She had plenty of things to do in Highever. After all, she had a mabari to train, squires to beat, and was in the middle of planning a trip to Orlais_ (Orlais!) _with her mother. But no, when spring came with its muddy rain and thunderstorms, Aurora had been summoned to her father's study and ordered_ (ordered!) _to pack up her things and be ready to ride out to Denerim the next morning._

_"If," she had drawled, "you insist on dragging me to fancy parties, I will need to take the wagon." She had sniffed and tossed heavy blonde curls over a thick, round shoulder. "I will need to bring my dresses. They can't fit in a saddlebag,_ father_._"

"_I'm buying you new dresses," her father had explained, and he had smiled when she squawked her displeasure. "You will choose them."_

_And she had instantly settled. Aurora had terrible experiences with dressmakers, and often found the results of the hours she'd stood on their stools being plucked and pricked by their needles to be less than flattering. Her mother, even Oriana, had insisted on fashions that were not flattering to the strong-armed, wide-hipped Aurora. Dresses of delicate lace with high waists and bright ribbons had looked stupid on her, fitted awkwardly, and worst of all, had earned her enough scoldings for fidgeting to last her a lifetime (and enough _stares_, too). No matter how much she had protested, no matter how much she had begged for dark, matte fabrics, for cuts that accentuated the natural curves of her body, she had been ignored._

_But now no longer!_

"_Any dresses I want?"_

"_Any dresses you want. Provided," her father had looked at her sternly, "that they are cut modestly. I'll not have you walking about Denerim dressed as a tart: do I make myself clear?"_

"_Yes!" Aurora had bounced on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands. "I am going to pack right now! And find a saddlebag big enough for Dane!"_

_There, of course, had been no such thing. Dane had ridden alongside her horse, and when he grew tired, he rode awkwardly across the top of her legs. Dane was a stocky dog, though he was slow to grow. It was the trade off, apparently, for his long life. It was why adult mabari were treasured and protected on the battlefield: they took several years to reach a size suitable for battle, and just as long to train adequately, despite their intelligence. Though even small for his age in comparison to other dogs, he was still very heavy and his weight on her thighs had driven Aurora's legs to numbness._

_But he was welcome company in Denerim. When her father took to court or held private meetings, it was usually Dane who she spent her time with - or at least, preferred to spend her time with. Wandering about the grounds of the Cousland estate within the walls of Denerim, she played "kill the darkspawn" and "Almarri and Imperium." Dane had refused to play if he had to be the darkspawn or the Imperium, and Aurora found herself chased up the large, knotted oak tree in the center of the estate's grounds more often than not. The slayer of the darkspawn or the Almarri _always_ won._

_Those occasions that she wasn't with Dane (and these were more often than she would have liked) she was with her tutors. In the retinue of household guards her father had taken, he had also brought all three of Aurora's tutors. History, language, music, as well as a host of other topics, Aurora's time in Denerim was not without its educational component. There was no reprieve from the pursuit of knowledge, and in between the scrapes she got out in the garden she practiced her Orlesian, read her old Arcanum history scrolls, and practiced her breathing techniques. With her father's household guard left behind in Highever, her sword practicing was put on hold (thought that did not stop Aurora from beating the oak tree in the garden with a stick to make sure her muscles did not become fatigued). And it was in these ways - in pleasure and in purgatory - that Aurora spent her days._

_And her nights? Well, her nights were spent attending salons and socials._

_The second day of her stay in Denerim, her father had taken her to the woman who had made dresses for the late Queen Rowan. Rowan, having shared a proclivity for the sword and other martial pursuits, was built differently than the other willowy women at court. Her figure, though stronger and more robust, was no less worthy of fine silks than any others', and this was something that her dressmaker had understood. And in seeing Aurora, she understood that she had the same needs._

_It took a week for the first dress to be made (a week where Aurora was excused from the social scene) - it was a beautiful gown of dark blue. It had a simple cut and style, a bodice that was fitted and a skirt that was full. The sleeves were long and loose, and the neck was trimmed with only the tiniest amount of ivory lace - enough to modestly disguise a young woman's swelling bust and rounded shoulders. There were no ribbons, no gaudy jewels, and no outrageous patterns - there was nothing that would otherwise detract from the woman who wore the gown._

_Aurora had sent heartfelt praise to the woman - hugged her and kissed her on each cheek, thanking her for the being first person to _understand_. The dressmaker had only smiled, bowed her head, and said that she would have more dresses for Aurora in the following weeks._

_That first month (where she was again excused from the majority of events) was a joyous celebration of fashion. Aurora had never enjoyed wearing dresses so much. She soon had dresses red, green, pale pink, and black. They came in all the latest styles, but they had been adapted for _her_ use. She had hair nets designed in the style of the Antivan court, and these she wore with leather slippers fashioned from Orlesian leather. She had a shawl of rabbit fur for when the autumn and chilly winds came, and kid gloves for those days when the salons went outside. Her father paid for everything, and her mother wrote to her exclaiming her utter joy that Aurora had finally come into her own._

_In truth, the girlish delight at the fashion never waned. Gone were those horrific moments of self-crippling doubt when she stared in the mirror and saw nothing but a tall, dumpy looking girl wrapped in a burial shroud of dusky pink lace. Now she was a svelte woman of the world! And when it was that she attended salons, she no longer tolerated being _tolerated_. She wouldn't settle for being Eleanor Cousland's eccentric daughter anymore, someone they laughed at because she beat their sons in combat and looked like a sausage, stuffed as she was in some ill-fitting frock._

_Tea with Queen Anora was the first social engagement she attended. She wore her blue dress with a golden hairnet. There were many women there, the Queen having been obliged to invite the wives of all the visiting banns and arls so that she was not seen as playing favorites. It was easy to get lost. Aurora had not been allowed to bring Dane. She had sat silently amidst the circle of chattering women, observing them all from over the edge of her teacup. She knew them all, and knew all their sons, and her mother didn't like most of them. By virtue of family solidarity, Aurora didn't like them either._

Especially_ the brown-haired brat with her pink frills and shrill little laugh. It was so disingenuous that it made Aurora want to vomit, or hit something, or vomit and then hit something, or hit something and _then_ vomit. And by the look on the Queen's face, it was apparent that Anora felt the same way. The lovely and serene Anora Theirin betrayed nothing except a smile that was exceptionally frosty; almost as cold as the winter blue of her eyes. She looked at the girl's mother, Lady Lorna, and then back to the girl. Lady Lorna was laughing with her daughter, murmuring, "Oh, darling Habren, you are just so funny," and patting the girl on her knee._

_Afforded the place at Anora's left due to her father's status, Aurora was struck with the temptation to converse with the Queen. But Anora, perhaps just as insular as Aurora was, did not turn to her left, nor did she turn to her right. She merely sat straight ahead, her tea cup in hand, and a half-smile on her face, nodding at appropriate times when she assumed she was being addressed._

_It was dull._

_So was the next social engagement - but only in so far as to the company that was kept. The "Denerim Wives" this group of women was called, though that was a misleading title for them, as most of them were not truly from Denerim or lived in the city for very long (Aurora thought they were called the Denerim Wives because they stank of the streets - and no amount of perfume would cover it). Consisting of an Arlessa, five Banns, and a larger handful of wealthy women with knighted husbands, they twittered and giggled at the idea of including Teyrna Eleanor's daughter within their social circle. They thought it would be good for her (and no doubt good for them too...). Unfortunately, it had only taken Aurora an hour in their company to realize that she would probably never be welcome amongst these women._

_It was not that they were cruel to her, at least, not outright. But it was their stares, like needle points, that flared anxiety through Aurora's countenance. Aurora _hated_ being judged, especially in the manner that these women wished to judge her. And so she did her extra hardest, her _extra_ best to be _the_ best guest she could be. Putting on all the airs of her station and locking her wrists, she decided that being the highest ranking woman there (for Anora was never invited to these parties, the women claimed, though it was likely Anora had simply _refused_ the invitations sent to her), it was up to her to pour the tea._

_Pour the tea she did - everywhere except the teacups. Her hands, shaking under the scrutiny, caused the teapot to clatter against the rim of the fine porcelain cup beneath it so loudly that Aurora feared it would break. Her reflexes caused her to pull the teapot up, which with her strong arms sent the lid flying over her shoulder and the contents of the tea splashing all down the front of her gown and face. The Maker was to be thanked because the tea was lukewarm (no one served _hot_ tea, in Denerim, apparently - too poor to afford the extra firewood is what Aurora hissed to her father when she saw him that night) and was not a damage to anything except the delicate spring-green gown and Aurora's ego. Unable to leave, and completely soaked down to her underthings, Aurora had hated every minute left of that social, and suffered through it in soggy silence._

_Everyone laughed at her when she was there. And everyone laughed at her when she wasn't there. And at the next social, where none of the Denerim Wives were even present, the gracious hostess took the teapot from Aurora and chuckled, "not you, my dear." The rumors had spread, and they continued to spread, until all of Denerim was cackling about Aurora the Klutz; big-shouldered, large-handed Aurora._

_She had complained bitterly to her father about it._

"_They ridicule me!" she cried, waving her hands above her head, fluttering the handkerchief she was holding. "They think I'm a laughingstock! _I hate being laughed at!_ Why do you make me go to these things? Do you intend to _torture _me?"_

"_I know you hate it," Bryce had told her, standing in front of her and placing his hands comfortingly on her shoulders, "but think of your mother. If you go to these events, it means your mother won't have to come the winter." He shook her gently, and his thumbs rubbed against the delicate, gauzy fabric of the cream gown's airy sleeves. "She hates it too. So... do your duty, pup."_

"_If I didn't have my eyes painted," Aurora had replied sternly, "I would roll my eyes at you, father."_

_At the comment, Bryce had smiled. "I know you would just _hate_ to smudge that pretty brown paint your mother recommended for you."_

"_It feels like Dane licked my eyelids."_

"_And, I hate to tell you," the smile turned into a smirk, "but it _smells_ like he did too."_

_Aurora had only glowered before kissing him farewell on the cheek and heading out into the yellow, afternoon sunlight to attend a garden party at one of the neighboring estates._

_The months of the spring gave way to those of the summer, and then the summer months gave way to the fall, and it was on the first day of autumn that King Cailan had scheduled his Landsmeet. He wanted an annual report from his landowners, as well as strategies for dealing with treasury losses, and stagnating trade. He'd heard Bryce Cousland's and Loghain Mac Tir's recommendations, as well as Anora's, and now he wanted everyone else's. It was going to be a caucus of squabbling men and women, each competing for the title of having the loudest voice. Ultimately, it was Bann Ceorlic who had been the most vociferous, and he was tasked with leading Cailan's political efforts. The two Teyrns had politely coughed into their hands and looked at each other with something akin to malicious amusement, and also bored discontent, since they knew that whatever Ceorlic created would pass into their hands anyway, and that they would be the ones forced to make the necessary revisions._

_Much to Aurora's chagrin, there were two parts to the first day of the Landsmeet - the formal meeting of landowners, and then the social gathering afterwards. The social gathering was a time for wives and husbands and children to mingle with their neighbors and political rivals, and try to negotiate extra dealings and solidify alliances that would be crucial to decisions made on later days. Her father had no need of her to mingle and curry favor for his own cause, and since he had been vague in regards to his political stances, she couldn't have guessed where to begin._

_And so she stuck to her father's side, a glass of wine in hand, and eavesdropped on the quiet conversation he was having with Teyrn Loghain._

"_This was a waste of time," Loghain muttered to her father, "we could have done without the farce."_

_"Peace, Loghain," he replied, "it will be worthwhile to have another opinion."_

_Loghain opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out, except a gruff chuckle._

_"What is it?"_

_Aurora, from the corner of her eye, saw Loghain gesture to a group of women who were beginning to crowd around a corner of the room. "Trouble," he replied._

_"You _stupid _knife-ear!" came a shrill voice from the crowd of women. "You've embarrassed me!"_

_Aurora recognized that voice: that was Habren Bryland's voice. The girl who had spent every salon laughing nastily in her nasally voice and making fun of the women who were absent to create false laughter. She peered into the crowd, trying to pick out which of the brown-haired women was the shrew. Being taller than the majority of attendants, it did not take her long to identify Habren, and who it was that she was talking to._

_Habren Bryland was pointing at a red-headed elf in a plain brown smock. The smock was fine, save for some discoloring along the neckline - a fading that could have come from repeated washes for washing out a stain. As Aurora neared, it became clear the entire smock was made of blotchy brown blobs, the elf having tried to cover the majority of these up by wearing a dark red apron embroidered with golden thread._

_"How dare you come into my presence looking like that!" Habren continued. "You look terrible! Like a tramp! A knife-ear drunk!" The pointing stopped, the finger wavered, and then there was suddenly a loud slap that reverberated through the chamber. The red-haired elf hunched forward, clutching her cheek, but there was no mistaking the menace, the hidden promises, that were lurking just below the surface of the elf's placid, expressionless mask._

_Aurora knew that mask; she wore it herself._

_"Get out of my sight!"_

_Habren raised her hand to hit the girl again, but found herself intercepted by one of Aurora's larger, callused hands. Having parted the crowd by virtue of her impressive stature, Aurora towered over the smaller Habren. Habren stared up, her eyes wide with accusation, fear, and confusion. They were soon filled with tears as Aurora, having had enough of Habren, raised the hand that was holding her wine goblet over Habren's head, and then tipped it forward._

_"How dare you come into my presence looking like that," drawled Aurora, cocking out a hip, "you look terrible. A tramp! A spoiled little drunk."_

_"M-m-m-mother!" Habren wailed, clutching at her soggy hair and pawing at a neckline that now hung loose around her. "M-m-m-mother!"_

_Aurora released Habren's wrist and let the girl flee. The elf stood, still clutching her cheek, though she lost nothing of her complacent mask. Slowly, as though she was walking on glass, she picked her way over to the exit. No one watched her go; no one thought it important. All eyes were on the grey-eyed girl with the snowy white hair net who was delicately shuffling her way around the puddle of wine that Habren had left behind._

_"Pup? A _word_."_

_Her father was addressing her with _the Tone_. She was in trouble; but it had been worth it. Aurora picked up her delicate white skirts and flitted on her tiptoes to where her father was pointing, smiling all the while at the women who were murmuring and avoiding her gaze. Her mother would have been shocked and proud._

_"_Mortified_!" Bryce scolded. "Your mother would be mortified."_

_"I disagree," Aurora replied with a shake of her head. "She would have been shocked, yes, but she would have seen it was necessary."_

_"It was necessary for you to bully Habren Bryland? Aurora, I have trade agreements to make with her father!"_

_"Perhaps," Aurora replied coldly, "in your talks, you should tell him that he needs to loosen his purse strings and give his daughter some gold so that she can better dress the women who serve her. _Or_," she added dangerously, "Perhaps he should monitor her spending, so that she isn't wasting all his gold. Or even," she lowered her eyelashes, "to watch who takes her money. I hear Lady Lorna has a terrible gambling problem, and often spends her daughter's allowance to feed her addiction."_

_"It isn't my business - it isn't _your_ business," Bryce said in a stern voice, crossing his arms over his chest, "how other people raise their children, let alone what they even do in their household."_

_"I disagree. When their household business - deficiencies - _whatever_ spills out into the public and offends my delicate sensibilities, then it becomes my business."_

_"_Aurora_," Bryce warned, "check that tongue of yours. I'll not have you disrespect me. I am not Habren Bryland. I am your father, and your antics have made things considerably more difficult for me. Why can you think of nothing but yourself? You acted selfishly."_

_"You haven't had to listen to her for hours on end. She's at every party I attend. She's a brutish, spoiled child who _deserved_ everything that she got!"_

_Loghain was hovering in the shadows several feet away, though he was not making any attempt to hide himself. Both Aurora and her father became aware of his presence instantly, their grey eyes flitting to his face, both narrowed equally in suspicion. They had walked far enough away from the main body of the party-goers to have their whispered conversation, and that they had been followed unsettled them._

_Aurora, sensing an opportunity, opened her mouth to speak. Her grey eyes were red and hot with the spark of her temper, but Bryce was well-tuned to her moods and was the quicker to speak._

_"Aurora, you are dismissed."_

_"...What?"_

_"You are to return home _immediately_. Not a fuss, not an argument from you, pup."_

"Thank. The. Maker_._" _Aurora pulled on her sleeves. "I've had enough of these dreadful engagements _anyway_. I didn't even want to be here: remember that!"_

_"Make no mistake, pup, you will make a formal apology to Habren Bryland - and you will do it at the next salon Queen Anora invites you to. _If_ she does, which she might not, considering the trouble you have caused. Your conduct here wasn't worthy of a Cousland."_

_"Since when does pandering - "_

_"_Go_, Aurora." Her father waved his hand. "Out of my sight."_

_Aurora clenched her hands into fists and gave her father the sweetest of smiles. She dropped into a curtsy, her hands spread wide, and then rose and turned towards the door. She took slow steps - gliding like a swan - flashing a smile of sharp teeth at the door guards. There were snickers behind her as she left (for there was no other way in or out of the place than by that very public door), but also wailing. And the wailing was as sweet as a bird's call. She hoped all the Denerim Wives were watching. They were _next_. _

_In the candlelit chamber just beyond the Landsmeet hall, Aurora gave out a growl of frustration._ "Not worthy of a Cousland_,_" _she hissed. Her cheeks were hot with anger._ "I'm_ the selfish one?_ Me_?" She shuddered in outrage. She was tempted to rip her hairnet off and stomp it underfoot, but the hairnet had been expensive, and it was one of the few accessories Aurora owned that didn't force her to bind her hair into some elaborate, complex hairstyle. Such hairstyles she could do, but they took a long time, and one mistake meant the entire style had to be restarted...and it was just time consuming. Aurora did not have enough _time_ anymore._

_A ringing in her ears and a sudden sensation of heat on the back of her neck stilled_ _Aurora in her pacing. Her skirts fluttered about her with the sudden abruptness at which she stopped, their rustling the only other sound in the room now that her footsteps had ceased. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she spied the elven servant that Habren had slapped seated on one of the wooden benches of the empty room._

_The elf was watching her with the same expressionless mask she had seen earlier. Whatever malicious thoughts lurked in the elf's head, they were not betrayed by the look of _nothingness_ that she wore. The girl looked neither obedient nor pleased nor sad nor angry. Whatever she felt had to be guessed. Aurora approached on her tiptoes, and the elf did not blink. Her slender hands were balled into the brown fabric of her skirts, having twisted the fabric high enough that she revealed slender, grey-stocking'd ankles and dirty slippers. The fact that the elf made no move to hide her feet revealed just how little she _cared_ about Aurora's opinions on her looks._

_Aurora halted when the bench was within a finger's reach of her skirts. "Do you mind if I sit?" she asked the elf._

_"Do what you like," the elf replied. "It isn't up to me."_

_Aurora chuckled and sat, gathering the folds of her skirt around her in the same manner that her mother did. She perched on the edge of the bench and ran her hands absently over the tops of her thighs. "I was asked to leave too."_

_The elf said nothing. She was staring at the far wall, at a painting of green and blue birds._

_Aurora looked between her face and the painting; there was nothing really remarkable about the painted canvas, save that the birds were very pretty and the sunset was very red. The elf was also very pretty, and her hair very red, almost orange in its tint. It was glossy, shining like fire in the flickering candlelight, and was quite enviable. The elf also possessed a complexion of fresh cream, with just the faintest hit of pink and brown splotches splattered across the bridge of her nose. She had, at least from the angle Aurora was sitting at, curiously brown eyes that were gold and yellow all at once. They were cat-like, in a way, in both their tint and their curiously aloof nature._

"_Habren is your employer, then?"_

_"She is," replied the elf._

_"How unfortunate."_

_The elf turned to look at her. "Unfortunate implies a measure of luck. Employment isn't fortunate or unfortunate; it is simply a necessity. Even if it has been _years_ in hers."_

_"Ooooh!" Aurora winced theatrically. "That stung. But was succinctly said. I bet," she smirked, "you do not talk like that in front of your mistress, do you?"_

_Something unwilling, a red and rosy flush, passed over the elf's pretty cheeks. "Mistress Habren says my..." the elf licked her lips, "temper is as sharp as my ears."_

"_Is that so?" Aurora grinned. "Is your wit as sharp?"_

_The elf looked as though she was unsure what to do; if she should be insulted by the human's audacity, or to share in the other woman's knowing smile. "It could be," she said after a few moments of hesitation._

"_You don't trust me, do you?" Aurora's smile never wavered. She risked looking away from the elf and down at her attire. The discoloration was definitely from repeated washing by hand and stone, and the apron appeared to be handmade._

"_I don't trust anyone," was the simple response._

"_I am not surprised." Aurora licked her lips and scuffed her slippers against the floor. It did not escape her notice that the elf's feet barely touched the ground. "I like your hair..." Aurora tipped her head forward, asking for a name with the gesture._

"_Rilian," supplied the elf._

"_Rilian." Aurora turned the name around in her mouth. "Rilian. Does it mean anything?"_

"_Are you asking me what it means in the language of my people?"_

"_Mhm."_

"_It means 'Princess Pointy Ears.'" Rilian laughed when she saw Aurora's expression of shock. "Hah. No, it doesn't really mean that. I don't know what it means."_

"_Ah. Well," Aurora extended her large, sword-scarred hand, "my name is Aurora."_

_Rilian shook it with a hand that was just as scarred and callused, and equally as red from where attempts had been made to scrub those calluses off. "And does Aurora mean anything?"_

"_It is old Arcanum for 'dawn.'"_

"_Ah." Rilian nodded._

_There was an awkward pause after the exchange of names - but there was one thing that Aurora had seen her mother do in such situations that always got conversations flowing (_Compliments_!). "I like your hair, Rilian." There was a lot to like about the elf's hair: particularly the way it snaked about itself in two twisting coils at the back of her head. There was not a hair out of place; everything was combed back and even._

_Rilian looked taken aback. "Thanks... Thank you." Amber eyes flashed curiously to her face and then back to the painting._

"_Oh," Aurora smiled pleasantly, "you are welcome! It is very glossy. And quite red. If I had hair like yours, I would never wear it up."_

"_I don't have much choice." Rilian inhaled deeply, her chest puffing out as she did so. "Mistress Habren says my hair is greasy, and that if I don't keep it tied back, that she'll cut it off."_

"_You really do not have to call her 'Mistress Habren' in my presence. You could call her Dog-Faced Habren for all I care."_

_The elf chuckled. "Don't tempt me; I might actually do that."_

"_Please do. And," Aurora appraised the elf with a keen eye, "why would she call your hair greasy? There's nothing greasy about it."_

_Shrugging, Rilian touched long fingers to the curve of one elaborately coiled braid. "I wouldn't know. I wore my hair down one day, and Mi - Habren didn't like it. She scolded me and sent me home without my wages, and told me not to come back without a braid or a veil."_

_Aurora harrumphed. "It sounds as though she was terribly jealous. She must think her hair inferior to yours..." There was an upward shift in her tone, a trailing off that suggested that Habren thought her hair inferior to everyone's._

"_I don't think she's even - " The elf stopped and pressed her lips together._

"_Even what?"_

"_Maker's balls," Rilian hissed, "if I get into trouble, it may as well be telling the truth. Even," she licked her lips, "even capable of thinking."_

_Aurora chuckled. "As much as I share your personal views on Habren, I'd disagree; I'd say she loves to think about herself. Pity," she twisted her lips into a grimace, "that there's no one to take her to task on it."_

"_Can't you?"_

"_Well, I just _tried_. Apparently, Habren is just a victim to my bullying," griped Aurora in a bitter tone. "The injustice is that she'll continue to be a stupid twit, and we'll all be forced to listen to her. And you," Aurora cast her eyes over Rilian again, "will have to endure her."_

"_And I suspect," Rilian said dryly, "she'll only get 'better' with age. Her _whine_ certainly has."_

_The two women shared a malicious twitter of laughter, Rilian putting a hand over her mouth to hide hers, while Aurora made no such efforts._

"_One day," Aurora said with a satisfied sigh, "they'll see her for what she really is. All those men and women in there who think she's just some innocuous little chit will soon have to deal with her personally. They cannot pretend that she will stay behind the closed doors of salons and socials, oh no. Leonas Bryland has no other children, only her. That means she'll inherit the Arling of South Reach, and becomes _Arlessa_. She will attend Landsmeets with all those gracious Banns and Arls - and Maker knows what Landsmeets will be like then. I would give my left eye to see them..."_

_Rilian tilted her head to the left, a sudden, sharp movement like that of a bird. "Why can't you?"_

"_Well," Aurora sniffed, "I'm the Teyrn's _younger_ child. My fate is marriage and children." She made a face. "I don't attend Landsmeets, I merely accompany my husband to Denerim so that he can attend them. I attend the evening social with him, speak with his contenders and find him allies, and that is about all my role in the Landsmeet will be, lest he is sick and I need to represent him. For the rest of the time, I shall likely have to keep to our estate within the city with only a handful of twittering servants, my sewing, and my dog to keep me company."_

"_That doesn't sound like such a bad fate." Rilian plucked at the end of a golden thread on her apron, twiddling the frayed edge between her fingers. She absently wet her thumb on her tongue and smoothed the fraying strands back together again, before twirling the thread once more. Her eyes were back on the painting of birds in flight again._

"_It is when you're a Teyrn's daughter. We don't exactly marry for love," Aurora fluttered her eyelashes woefully. "Any marriage I make has to be politically sound; I'm marrying down, and someone else is marrying up. So, there has to be incentive for Highever to go through with the union...beyond just bringing two families together. Trade agreements, political assistance, even martial aid should it be required."_

_Rilian made a humming sound and then drew herself up the slouch she had fallen into. "Elven marriages," she said matter-of-factly, "are not so different. Our marriages are arranged... though we marry to unite our communities and bring new blood into the alienage. There's some trade relations involved, I'm told, but there's not a great deal of political maneuvering that we can do for obvious reasons. The man I marry I'll never have met before."_

"_And," replied Aurora, "he will be dashing and charming for his mystery. You won't have been exposed to his flatulence and terrible table manners since you were twelve."_

_The elf let out a dry chuckle. "I thought that chamber smelled funny."_

_Aurora only smiled. She saw the thread between Rilian's fingers. "Did you make that yourself?"_

"_My cousin did," Rilian replied proudly. "It was a birthday present."_

"_She is very good."_

_The stitches were neat, precise, and the gold thread was embroidered to look like winged vines. The fabric of the apron itself, upon closer inspection, looked to be made of silk._

"_She is very good indeed," Aurora repeated slowly. "I wouldn't have the patience to manage something so fine and delicate."_

"_Shianni is trying to teach me but..." Rilian shrugged, "we rarely see each other. We barely have enough time to talk, let alone sew together."_

"_Does she work for Habren - or someone like her - too?"_

"_No, Shianni's family has their own business. They do the washing for many households in Denerim." Rilian looked at her hands and smiled darkly. "She would probably have hit Habren back, if she'd been in my place."_

"_Your cousin sounds like quite the character."_

"_You have no idea."_

_Aurora raised her eyebrows and nodded her head._

_There was another stretch of silence, this time longer than the previous, as each of the two women seated on the bench gazed around the shadowy chamber with bored eyes. Aurora's fingers drummed the edges of the bench, while Rilian's were busy tracing the patterns on her apron. As before, Aurora broke the silence first._

"_So, how do you manage to keep that hair of tours so neatly coiled? Two braids at the base of your neck..."_

"_Simple, really. Combs and pins. And," Rilian smirked, swinging her head towards Aurora and stretching her elegantly curved neck, "if you wanted to _really_ be impressive, you can braid a ribbon into it."_

"_Oooh, I like that idea. Simple as it is," Aurora smiled ruefully, "it's something I've never thought to try. So, if I ask you to unravel your hair and then put it up in the same hairstyle...will you do it?"_

"_If...if you really want."_

_Aurora nodded and watched the elf's quick fingers plunge into her thick hair and pluck out the bright, copper pins that she was using to keep the coiled braids in place. The pins were many, and affixed the coils of the braid to both the hair at the back of the neck and other rings in the coil. Aurora counted at least twenty pins in the elf's hand before she uncoiled the other braid._

"_You don't need me to rebraid my hair, do you?"_

"_No, I know how to braid." But Aurora studied the positions of the two braids carefully, noticing how low they were to the back of the neck. "Just wanted to see where your braids started. You can pin them up again now."_

_The elf took her braid and a pin in each hand and slowly, one pin at a time, she began to wrap the braid around itself, forming a large, braided disc at the back of her head. She did the same for the other braid, coiling it into a disc and fixing it into place. Her long fingers were very elegant, and her knuckles were bright red from where they had been vigorously scrubbed earlier in the day._

"_Say.." Aurora's grey eyes widened, "I don't suspect you're looking for new employment, are you?"_

_Rilian shook her head. "No. My mother and father are in Denerim. My family's here, all my cousins - I'd rather not leave them behind. As much as I hate Habren, I'd hate to lose them more."_

"_Well," Aurora tilted her head back, "You could bring them with you. Denerim may have a large alienage, but there is also plenty of room in Highever."_

"_No..." Rilian frowned, "It's a bit too selfish of me to ask them to move to Highever and give up their lives here. Shianni is successful, and mother enjoys the vibrancy of Denerim. Highever wouldn't be the same."_

"_That's a shame." Aurora held up her hand, palm up, to Rilian. "I rather like you."_

_She looked surprised at the admission, her amber eyes widening and then blinking rapidly. "Well. Well! Well, if you come to stay in Denerim, I may see you again."_

"_I likely won't." Aurora lowered her hand, and the tone of her voice. "I abhor gossips. Denerim is filled with them."_

_The elf grinned, and it was a white and wicked thing. "I've seen worse."_

"_That is a matter of opinion." Aurora spoke with plenty of experience._

"_You're not an elf, so you wouldn't understand." Apparently, so did Rilian._

_Aurora slowly lowered her left eyelid and raised her right eyebrow. "Then help me understand. Are you suggesting that our Alienages are filled with old elven women gossiping about each other?"_

_The elf let out a loud burst of laughter, a trilling cackle of amusement. "I never said they were _old_ elven women!"_

_"Then young elven women?"_

"Any_ elven woman," Rilian corrected. "We have to amuse ourselves in some way." _

"_And here I was, thinking that gossip was a product of _idle minds breeding idle words_. Apparently not."_

"_There's nothing 'idle' about it. Gossip is very involved. Active," the elf bared her teeth in her smile, "even."_

"_So I see. Well, well," mused Aurora, "whenever my father accuses me of being idle and gossiping, I can say that the elves gossip far more than I do, and they're hardly idle at all." She settled her back against the wall, tilting her head forward so that her hairnet did not catch on the rough outer face of the stones._

_The elf chuckled and shook her head. "I can't speak for the Highever alienage."_

"_But you speak for Denerim's."_

_The elf looked as though she wanted to say something, but was thinking better of it - though she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. She mimicked Aurora's movement also settled back against the wall, pushing her shoulders hard against the stone to straighten her posture._

_Aurora only laughed at her silence. "So, tell me then, Rilian, my elven friend: Does Habren use your famed gossiping skills to her own ends? She seems the sort to want to hear everyone's dirty laundry and naughty secrets."_

"This_ is gossiping," the elf said pointedly, her narrow red eyebrows drawing together in an accusing stare. "I thought you didn't like it?"_

"_It can't be gossip if it's truthful, can it?" Aurora lowered her long eyelashes._

_With a muttered curse and a quiet "_shems_," the elf took a deep breath and shook her head once. "Habren isn't interested in secrets. Her mother is."_

"_She uses you?"_

_The elf nodded._

"_How?"_

"_She has me listen. To put my," the elf added dryly, "'big ears' to use."_

"_My mother does not have elven servants that attend on her." Aurora licked her lips. "I wonder if that is why?"_

"_I wouldn't know," replied Rilian crisply. "What _shem _matrons do is beyond my understanding, sometimes."_

"_I deserved that - though my mother did not." Aurora closed her eyes and smiled indolently. "I am sorry, Rilian, I was careless with my thoughts. Please, do keep telling me about Lady Bryland. You said she makes you listen; does she have you do anything else?"_

"_Mmm," Rilian hummed in thoughts, chewing her lips as she did so. "Oh!" She broke into a smirk as she remembered something. "She didn't learn this from me, she learnt it from someone who used to be in her employ, but she uses an old elven trick at her salons. She salts the food and serves obscene amounts of wine to her guests to slake their thirsts. The tactic never fails makes tongues loosen. She doesn't even need us to listen, then. She can collect all the secrets she wants herself."_

"_I knew it," Aurora hissed. "I _knew_ it."_

_The elf frowned. "Knew it was elven or knew that she did it?"_

"_That she did it. Her food is always far too salty." Aurora scuffed her slippers against the stone floor. "I knew it, knew it, knew it."_

_Rilian looked confused. "Well, you would be the only one then. No one has complained yet."_

_"No one would complain _openly_ to their hostess. That would be rude. But," Aurora ran her tongue over her top lip, as though tasting salt, "a declined invitation, well, that's_ _not rude. Has attendance to her salons decreased, at all? You only have one impression to make on our sensitive taste buds, before we refuse to attend anymore 'feasts.' My mother and I don't go; we didn't like the food, or the company."_

"_Ah." Rilian shrugged. "I don't attend the salons, I only listen to what Lady Lorna says. She talks about her parties all the time, she must still have guests... poor sods, they've no idea about her intentions."_

_Aurora scoffed. "That's their own fault."_

_"What if they were just attending to be nice?"_

_"Lady Lorna is hardly _nice_. A nice person wouldn't want her friendship."_

_"It has been my experience," Rilian said dryly, looking sidelong at Aurora, "that it's often the not nice people who have the most 'friends.'"_

_"That is stupid."_

_"The world is stupid," Rilian agreed. "But as my father says, it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness."_

_"Unless you're punished for lighting it. Ah well, at least I am vindicated." Aurora opened her eyes and sighed. The air she inhaled was smoky and thick, having wafted in through a window that overlooked something burning in the courtyard. She coughed. "So, now that you have been exiled for the rest of the day, what will you do? Will you go home?"_

_Rilian hummed in the negative. "Not until Habren dismisses me for the day. That won't be until after supper."_

"_After supper?" Aurora coughed again and put a hand to her mouth, she leaned forward, shoulders heaving. She straightened and wiped away her tears of strain with the back of her hand. "Are you not afraid of walking home in the dark?"_

"_I know how to handle myself," it was the elf's turn to have an airy response._

"_Can you fight?" Aurora asked with an eager glint in her eyes._

"_Maybe."_

"_What do you fight with?"_

"_My knives."_

"_Do you," Aurora learned closer to the elf and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "have them with you now?"_

_Rilian frowned and shied away, scooting several inches away down the bench away from her. "No."_

"_Are you lying to me?"_

"_No."_

_Aurora grinned. "I don't believe you." Aurora had seen Rilian's hands - she knew you didn't get hands like that from scrubbing dishes and lacing up dresses. Hands like that were created from years of practice with a pommel. The elf knew how to fight; Aurora wondered how good she was. She was quite sure she could win a duel with her, but if the elf fought with knives, it meant that she was possibly ambidextrous - a quality that Aurora greatly admired. She had never fought someone who wielded a weapon in both hands, she had only tackled men who used a single sword, a weapon and shield, or a two-handed weapon. It would have been a new experience, but Rilian did not seem willing._

_The elf narrowed her eyes into catlike slits. "I don't care what you believe."_

"_Where do you hide them?"_

"_Does it matter?"_

_Aurora tisked. "You shouldn't answer a question with a question."_

_Rilian scowled. "You are a very nosy shem!"_

"_Yes." Aurora agreed brightly. "I am!"_

_Rilian opened her mouth and then closed it again. She looked as though she was struggling to for the correct words. At last, her pink lips settled on: "I will get home safely, just as I have every night. Many elves leave the castle at once; we walk back together. Safety in numbers."_

"_And do they all carry knives?"_

"_Incorrigible, shem! We're dead," the elf said menacingly, "if we do."_

"_Peace, Rilian," Aurora held up her hands, "I do not mean to get you in trouble I..." she flashed the other woman a smile, "I just _know_ you _use_ knives. You don't get hands like these," she held them in front of her face, displaying calluses and scars, "from a servant's work."_

"_Are you..." Rilian pulled her head back suspiciously, "...did you...want to...well, _fight_?"_

"_Spar." Aurora bobbed her head eagerly. "I haven't been allowed to hit another person since I left Highever. I bet you are quite fast."_

_Rilian thought this over. "I am quite fast, yes."_

"_Too fast for me to hit."_

"_Probably." Rilian was preening._

"_Does Habren ever give you days off?"_

"_No." Rilian's face fell, her mood soured as reality reared its ugly head._

_Aurora frowned. "That's a shame. I thought maybe one day you could come to the estate and we could spar...I've never fought someone who wields a weapon in both hands before. I would be eager to learn."_

"_It would have to be sometime in the evening, when Habren dismisses me...but that's usually quite late. You would," Rilian raked golden eyes over Aurora's larger frame, "probably be asleep."_

"_I could stay awake."_

"_And my parents would worry if I did not return home..."_

"_You could always tell them Habren requested you spend the night, and in reality, you could stay at my estate. Of course," Aurora moved her head from side to side and licked her lips, "you would probably be tired and bruised the next morning."_

"_You mean you would be tired and bruised," Rilian countered._

"_Oh _ho_!" Aurora grinned. "The challenge has been made! Of course," she drawled, "you cannot bruise me or tire me if you do not _fight_ me."_

"_And where is it," Rilian pretended to pick something off the sleeve of her brown smock, "exactly that you live, Aurora?"_

"_The Cousland estate. It is the grey stone building in the Noble's Quarter of Denerim. You'll know it's my home because there's a wild attack mabari in the yard, more rose bushes than you can count, and our walls are draped with our laurel-leaf standard."_

"_And you're," Rilian looked at her again with suspicion, "not afraid that if you let me - some random elf you just met - spend the night at your estate that I won't rob you blind?"_

"_Not really. I know where to find you, if you do. And," Aurora shrugged indifferently, "I know who is precious to you. I _also_ know you must have some common sense. Habren probably scrupulously counts her jewelry and would accuse you of stealing it should any of it have gone missing. As you've lasted this long in her service, you must have been weaned of any petty criminal tendencies."_

"_I wouldn't steal from you," Rilian clarified. "I'm just surprised you didn't think I would. Most people wouldn't."_

"_I am not most people." Aurora smirked proudly. "So...when do you expect to visit?"_

"_I...well. I don't know."_

"_Once this Landsmeet is over," Aurora cast a glance over her shoulder, as if she could see through the walls into the chambers beyond, "my father and I are returning to Highever. And I, being such a disgrace, will probably never be allowed to come back to Denerim."_

"_Oh. Hmm." Rilian shifted on the seat and readjusted her skirts. "I'd...well, that would complicate things."_

"_Sooner, rather than later."_

"_What about two nights from now?"_

"_That would give father enough time to settle down..." Aurora nodded. "Yes, two nights from now would be excellent!" Her father would vent his temper out to her this evening, and then apologize for the outburst in the morning and likely rescind most of his punishments that he had laid down the night before. Yes, two days was plenty of time. All she had to do was find suitable training weapons, and if she remembered rightly, there were wooden swords in the guardhouse..._

_"Would I just...climb over the wall or...?"_

_"No, I'll be there."_

_"Ah." Rilian nodded. "Good."_

_There was a third awkward silence, spanning several minutes. In it, Rilian and Aurora shared looks at each other out of the corners of their eyes when they thought the other wasn't looking. Rilian's glances were sharp and furtive, lasting no longer than a second and striking with laser precision over Aurora's face. Aurora's glances were longer, but still no more than a heartbeat's length. Her eyes wandered to Rilian's hands, intrigued at the scars that she saw. Unlike the other two silences, however, it was Rilian who broke it this time._

_"I am," Rilian looked to the large doors at the far end of the wall, "probably going to leave." She was eying the cracks of warm, afternoon sunlight that was slipping below the crack between the door and the floor. "My day doesn't end with a slapping, and Habren will want me to return to the estate and take care of my usual chores."_

_"Bryland House in the Noble's Quarter?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Well," Aurora inclined her head to the door, "it seems as though we're walking the same way."_

_"You _walked _here," Rilian eyed the delicate gown Aurora was wearing, "in that?"_

_"No." Aurora winked. "I took our carriage here. But walking home in it will make my father feel suitably guilty. And that," she said with a highly pleased tone, "is worth a ruined dress and slippers."_

_"That _dress_," Rilian stood and looked down at Aurora, though not by much since Aurora's head was the same height as her chin, "could probably feed a lot of elves, Aurora. It's a sad thing to see you ruin it. To waste all that money."_

_"Oh," Aurora put a hand to her heart, "I am shamed. Shamed!" The elf was not being disingenuous with her scolding, but Aurora was in her acceptance of it. Aurora was far beyond being insulted by Rilian's words, finding herself enjoying the other woman's snark. She probably would have liked Rilian less had she been complacent. The elf was, though, obviously tense by the stiffness of her stance, and Aurora did her best to diffuse whatever miscommunication had occurred between them with a dose of razor-sharp teasing. "If you wanted to ride in my carriage, Rilian, you merely should have said so."_

_"I don't want to ride in it."_

_"You didn't a moment ago," Aurora flashed a smile at her, "but you do now. The seed has been planted! Don't tell me it hasn't taken root?"_

_Rilian said nothing. She merely stared at the door._

_"Come," Aurora stood, and found that she dwarfed the elven servant much to her amusement. She placed her hand gently between Rilian's shoulder blades, "I'll take you to the Bryland House in my carriage. It beats walking, and as you said, it wouldn't do to ruin my lovely dress."_

_Rilian stiffened slightly at the intruding touch, straightening an inch that Aurora didn't even realize the smaller woman possessed. "Very well."_

_Aurora took small, measured steps so as not to eclipse Rilian as they walked side by side. She found she didn't need to; Rilian strode for two people, keeping pace with the taller, longer-legged Aurora easily. "And if anyone asks you," Aurora chuckled, "why you were in the company of a - what is it, 'shem' girl?"_

_"Yes. But," Rilian shook her head, "they won't ask me."_

_"Oh, well." Aurora shrugged. "All the better then."_

_The two women, each grasping a metal rung and tugging open the doors, trotted their way into the warm, autumn sunlight. It shone heavy and yellow down upon their heads equally - for the sun did not discriminate between elf and human, no more than did the iron of the carriage they stepped into or the horses that drew it along Denerim's winding streets. They rode past the Cousland estate, and when Aurora closed her eyes she imagined she heard Dane barking as the carriage rolled by. They also rode past the homes of the Guerrins, Mac Tirs, and Howes until they came to Habren Bryland's home away from home._

"_It was really nice to meet you, Rilian," Aurora sat forward in her seat and once more extended her hand to the elf. "And I look forward to seeing you in two days' time."_

"_And it was nice meeting you, Aurora." Rilian's smile hovered between splitting her face and barely lifting the corners of her lips, as if there was some internal battle being waged. "It," she laughed quickly, wickedly, and then swallowed it, "will be nice _beating_ you, too."_

_Aurora pressed her lips together, puffed them out, and stuck her tongue out from between them. "We will see!" she said, breaking the comical expression. "We will see. Remember: two days!"_

"_I'll remember. I'll remember." Rilian pushed the carriage door open and hopped out into the sunlight, landing on nimble toes. "Farewell, Aurora."_

_As soon as the elf was out of the carriage, it began to move._

"_Goodbye, Rilian!" called Aurora, sticking her head out from the open window of the carriage. As it pulled away, she saw Rilian slip between two of the iron bars of the estate's gates, and saw how the elf gracefully tilted her head backwards and then sideways to make it fit. She disappeared in a red and brown flash into the wild jungle of plants, and seated alone with her feet propped up on the opposite seat, Aurora smiled to herself. She had a feeling that, even if Rilian did not appear in two days, that she would see her again._

* * *

_Rilian Tabris is graciously borrowed from Gene Dark and her amazing tale _Death and the Maiden. _I highly, highly recommend it - the writing is stunning and the characters are just terrific. Rilian in particular is a feisty scrapper who truly understands what sacrifice is - she isn't perfect, she is intricately flawed, but she's also lovable, sympathetic, and downright fierce._

_Next up in _Trovommi Amor _we'll return once more to the Vigil, and we'll see how Aurora is handling her Grey Wardens. We should have copious amounts of Nathaniel snark, as well as some brinkmanship between him and our indefatigable Warden Commander. If you've read _Worth, _you ultimately know how the war ends - but for those of you who haven't: stay tuned!_

_Love goes out to my readers - special extra love to Gene Dark, who sat with me into the wee ours of morning (in her time AND in mine!) and helped me write this thing. Thank you, Gene!_

_Also: 400,000 words!_


	49. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37 **

The rest of the day went rather smoothly. The Warden spent much of it in her study writing letters. She wrote to Fergus, expressing her joy to be back in Ferelden and how she hoped he had received her dearest friend Leliana with open arms. She also wrote to Alistair, apologizing for her extended leave of absence - "_Grey Warden business,_" she had written, and left it at that. Alistair had "renounced" his ties to the Grey Wardens, so whatever curiosity he had about what had taken her so long, he would have to sate with his own speculation. She was most certainly not going to tell him, nor did she believe that he would actually _believe _her version of events. To King Alistair, the Grey Wardens (at least until Loghain had come along) had been a pure organization that did no wrong. She doubted she could change his view of things, nor was she really inclined to think that she actually _wanted _to. Her third letter, or should we say letters, were addressed to the Banns, freeholders, masons, carpenters, and bankers of Amaranthine and the surrounding areas, inviting them to come to a council she was calling about potential reconstruction efforts (Fergus was also invited to this meeting). And lastly, her fourth letter was to Empress Celene of Orlais. It, like the one to Fergus, was cordial and assured her well being. She would likely have to write Celene a second letter asking her for money, but that would have to come later... once she knew how much she had to ask for.

When it was dinner time, the Warden meandered her way downstairs (Dane having opted to wander after Loghain), frowning with distaste each time she came across structural damage within the Vigil. She was late, and there was little food left, her Wardens having already eaten their fill some time earlier. Only Sigrun and Carver were sitting at the long table that had been dragged into the hall for their dining purposes. It rested by the hearth, nestled off to one corner and out of the way of the view of the Howe Family's seat of power. The two of them were chatting quietly and were quite engrossed in a card game. Each was gnawing on a piece of bread slathered in the thick, salty butter that Varel had probably procured from one of the local farms.

Settling herself on the bench next to Carver, the Warden helped herself to what was left in one of the large wooden bowls nestled at the center of the table. It looked to be some sort of thick, mutton stew that was flecked with grey slivers of onions, bright yellow corn and white beans. It was cold, and thick, but it soaked up an entire loaf of bread _very _well.

"Do you mind if I finish this off?" asked the Warden, pointing at the bowl. "I'm starving."

"Go ahead." Carver flashed her a smile, his bright blue eyes shining from beneath his heavy, black bangs.

"If you want, Commander," Sigrun added a bit more hesitantly. She wore a reserved expression, which was a stark contrast to the bright smile she had been wearing when alone with Carver.

"Excellent," the Warden beamed, and she used her spoon to pluck out the bread she had dropped into the stew. It was wonderfully soggy and infused with the thick onion, mutton, and bean broth. From under a veil of long eye lashes and over the back of her hand, she watched Carver and Sigrun play their card game. It was evident that her presence made Sigrun nervous, and the dwarf had lost her playfulness in addition to her earlier smile. Carver, however, seemed to be glowing. He kept shooting her glances out of the corner of his eye, glances that the Warden did her best to obviously ignore. She stuffed the bread into her mouth.

Chewing, then swallowing, the Warden reached for Carver's flagon of ale, flashing him a wicked smile as she sipped at whatever was left.

"Hey!" Carver dropped his hand to the table, revealing all his cards to Sigrun, and then reached out to snatch his drink back.

The Warden chuckled and allowed the ale to be wiggled from her fingers, and when Carver turned to look back at Sigrun, she flashed the surprised looking Sigrun a wink. She saw Sigrun lick her lips and pointedly avert her eyes from where Carver was scrambling to rearrange his cards.

"Did you see anything, Sigrun?" Carver asked with narrowed eyes.

"No," Sigrun said with a shake of her head, which sent one of her small braids tumbling over her shoulder, "didn't see a thing. Not me!"

"Trust," the Warden chided gently, "is important within the Grey Wardens. If," she grinned again, "Sigrun said she didn't see anything, she didn't see anything."

"I...mmmm." Carver sighed. "Your turn, Sigrun."

Sigrun's tongue dipped out of the corner of her mouth and she delicately placed a card atop the pile that rested between them. Carver placed another card atop that, and then let out a groan as Sigrun placed the remainder of her cards down on the table.

"And I win!"

"You cheated. You _did _see."

Sigrun shook her head. "I didn't cheat. I knew what your cards were before I saw them. You're very bad at keeping your hand a secret!"

"How?"

Sigrun chuckled. "Well! When you frown at the first deal, and then twitch and shift every moment after that..."

"I don't."

"You do! It was easy to guess that your hand wasn't very good. Mine wasn't either. Then, if you consider what you and I are putting down, and what we're pulling out of the pile, and putting down again..."

"_Right. _So, how'd you get so good at cards?" Carver put his elbows onto the table.

Sigrun swept the deck into her hands and sorted them, her fingers pulling in their edges as she shuffled and drummed them on the table top. "I had a lot of free time?" She stared at the cards. "Every Duster has to know how to play cards."

"Gambling?" Carver asked.

"Yeah," Sigrun nodded.

The Warden rested her forearm on the table and leaned forward to Sigrun. "Did it make you any money?"

"Nope."

"Hm," the Warden shook her head, "unfortunate. Did you win _anything_?"

"Nope!"

"Then did you lose anything?" Carver licked at his lips.

Sigrun smiled. "Didn't lose anything either."

"That doesn't make any sense." Carver frowned. "_Dwarves._"

"_Humans,_" Sigrun countered, matching Carver tone for tone.

"The real question I have to ask," and at this the Warden the glanced towards the hallway, "is have you played Oghren? And if you have: have you won?"

"Yes." Sigrun looked incredibly pleased with herself, shrugging her shoulders coyly. "Fifteen times, Commander."

"Ha!" The Warden slapped her hand on the table. "Fantastic!"

"That's not much of a feat." Carver looked at the Warden with frigid blue eyes. "I've known him two days and I don't think I've ever seen him sober."

"Drunken dwarves," the Warden smirked, "play cards better than the most lucid of humans."

Sigrun raised an eyebrow. "Are you speaking from experience, Commander?"

"I am." But the Warden wouldn't say anymore. "There was no other way to pass the time in Orzammar."

"Oooh," Sigrun winced. "That's the hard way to learn."

"And I have learnt my lesson." The Warden looked sidelong at Sigrun. "I have no doubt you'd take me for all I was worth. Which, unfortunately for you, is not a great deal at this moment in time."

"Nathaniel said you were from one of the richest families in Ferelden." Sigrun's expression was surprisingly earnest for what she said.

The Warden smirked. "Tell me, did he say that because he thinks my family somehow acquired his own's vast fortunes."

"Yup."

"Oh, how _droll._" She sighed. "Sadly, Sigrun, his father _stole _my family's wealth, and I've yet to find what he did with it. And also sadly - this time for Master Howe's ego - his father's value was significantly _less _than my own. The difference between the two has made us destitute."

Sigrun put her hands in the air. "Hey, don't get mad at me. I'm just saying what I heard."

The Warden frowned. "I am not angry with you. Far from. I just want you to know the truth. I have ledgers if you wish to verify my math."

"I'll take your word for it, Commander."

"Oh," Carver slapped his hand to his forehead, "stupid of me, but I completely forgot: Loghain said he wanted to speak to you."

"Did he?" the Warden replied stiffly. "He _knows _where my study is."

"Oh." Carver frowned. "Well, I don't know where it is. But he wanted to speak to you. He said he'd be discussing training with Cauthrien, if you wanted to go to the guardhouse..."

The Warden eyed the evening sky through one of the Vigil's arrow slits. "Looks a bit cold outside, doesn't it?" She had no intention of going to Loghain.

"Rain," said Sigrun. "It's been raining here every night. It helps us find the holes in the ceiling!"

"Ooh," the Warden winced. "Hopefully not in your sleeping quarters?"

"Nope! But in Anders's..."

The Warden smiled in indulgent triumph at the news. "And no one has fixed it?"

"He won't let anyone into his room." Sigrun's eyes darted to either door, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, wanting to say something important, and then she leaned backwards and shut her mouth, having thought better of it.

"Probably to hide all his blood-mage tools," muttered Carver. "I bet he plays with knives when we aren't looking..."

Sigrun snorted. "Anders may be a stick in the mud, but he's lectured us enough about blood magic that it seems impossible for him to do it himself. He's just annoying, he's not a hypocrite."

"Just you wait," Carver warned, "just you wait."

"I've been _waiting,_" Sigrun shot back, "nearly a year. Trust me, you haven't _heard _him."

"Heard plenty like him though."

"Well," the Warden interrupted smoothly, "whether he will or won't remains to be seen. And on that _note,_" she flashed Carver a smile and put her hand on his shoulder, "blades out, not in. We both have our quarrels with mages, but let's save it for Darkspawn mages. Emissaries are the real threat." From the corner of her eye, she saw Sigrun nodding her head in agreement.

"If he even - "

"I know, Carver. I know." She chuckled. "You'll be second in line, after me. Or third, after Loghain. Maybe even fourth," she shot Sigrun a sly smile, "after Sigrun, if we go by seniority."

At Carver's look of protest, Sigrun snickered.

The walls and floor shook as a long, low rumble of thunder rolled overhead. The rumbling was followed by the sudden pattering of rain, and soon all the keep was awash with the sound of rain scraping the Vigil's roof tops.

"I'd hate to be on guard duty," Carver said quietly.

"As would I." The Warden stood and gave both of her Wardens quick smiles. "Which is why I am going to hide in my study so that Varel doesn't find me and stick me outside."

Sigrun laughed again. Carver merely gave a subdued chuckle and shook his head.

"I'll see you two in the morning."

"Good night, Commander," came the dual chorus as the Warden stalked out of the hallway, a satisfied expression on her face. If Sigrun held any strong allegiance to Commander Caron, it did not show.

Retreating back to her study, the Warden busied herself with reading Varel's accounts of the happenings within the Keep, as well as the instructions that Andraste Caron had left behind. Andraste had done a tally of the damage before she'd left, and had even drawn by hand details of the damages on the Vigil itself. She had set underway repair efforts, though they were not as extensive as the Warden had expected. Leaks were repaired, structural damage that was severe had been temporarily fixed, and calls for builders had gone out. No one had offered to lend a hand to assist Andraste in financing or fixing the Vigil, and the Warden could guess why: she was an Orlesian. Their Orlesian _Arlessa. _The craftsmen had stalled and delayed their orders, local nobles had been unwilling to front the coin, and even the common laborers had ignored her pleas for help.

But they couldn't ignore Aurora Cousland's pleas. She was the _Hero of Ferelden. _Moreover, she _was _Fereldan. And what she wanted - whether it was repairs to her keep - more farmland - a larger army - more money - she _would _get.

She shuffled the papers against her desk loudly and gave a loud sigh of satisfaction. While things were not as easy as she would have liked, she did find herself in a better position that she had expected. She had worried about trouble in the Grey Wardens, feared that her own troops would rise against her - and they very well could - but what really had her shaking was the fear that the people of her Arling, her homeland, would have resented her. But they did not - and even if they did resent her, they had hated Andraste more, which meant that she was still their favorite Warden Commander, and still their favorite Arlessa.

With Andraste's detailed damage report (no doubt done in such a meticulous fashion so that no one could refute her claims or change her extra for services rendered), the Warden felt as though she was well prepared for what was ahead of her at the Builders' Council. She knew what had to be done - she just needed to find people willing to do it - and people willing to pay for it. The latter was the hardest, but she wouldn't know until her Banns came to her. And if they refused her, she'd ask Fergus and Alistair, and if they refused her, she'd threaten to write to Empress Celene of Orlais - and if that didn't get her money, she actually would. Of course, she couldn't forget his Grand Highness the First Warden in Weisshaupt. And to him she would write first: just as soon as she got a quote from the craftsmen.

And if _all _of them refused her...well. Maybe she'd awaken some darkspawn, trail them down the King's Road, and up through Gherlen's pass, and set them loose on the towns.

"Where are the Grey Wardens?" she mocked aloud to herself. "Oh, why, they're too busy patching their roof to fight. If _only _we hadn't been so selfish!" She rubbed the back of her neck with her gauntlet wearily. She probably couldn't make good on that threat, but she could most certainly try. Other thoughts passed through her mind, of siphoning elves from the Alienages in the cities across Ferelden and bringing them to Amaranthine to work. That would be one way to spite the nobles who refused to help pay - take away their cheap (and often used, despite any sort of racial prejudice) labor supply so that things became more expensive in their own cities. Yes, now that _was _probably something that she could do.

She'd have to ask if it was possible to expand the Alienage within Amaranthine proper.

She closed her eyes and rested her elbows on the table in front of her. She put her head in her hands, feeling the pull on the stiff muscles of her back. It had been a long day. A productive day, but a long one. She needed a bath and some sleep.

And because Varel was a Saint and knew her needs almost better than she did, there was already a bath waiting for the Warden in her room. Stripping quickly out of her armor and then throwing herself into the steaming hot water, the Warden let herself soak until her skin was pruned and sun-stricken red. She meticulously scrubbed at her hands, feet, and scalp, and then washed her hair with the soap that had been brought. All in all, by the time she locked her door (having let Dane, who was waiting outside it patiently, into her room for the night) and slipped into her nightshirt, she felt free and boneless.

The Warden fell asleep to the pounding of the rain against the panes of her windows and the heavy roof over her head. Her bath-warmed body heated the sheets and feather pillows around her, and she sprawled as only one could in a bed meant just for them. She dreamt of nothing - all was simply quiet, black, and still.

Until midnight came.

Pain flashed like lightning outside her window. The Warden awoke in a sweat, her body shivering as the bones in her left arm throbbed as though in an icy vice. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out, finding the agony so intense that the edges of her vision were blurring. Her arm felt as though the bones were being ripped from her skin, tentacles of cold water flowing through her veins, burning and freezing their way down her forearm to her fingertips. She couldn't move it, the arm was unresponsive, limp.

She had felt like this once before - when the Archdemon had brought its tail down against her shield, splintering metal and wood as easily as it shattered the bone in her left arm.

The Warden ripped the sheet off her body and with a strangled grunt she pulled back the left sleeve of the nightdress. She expected to see her arm mangled and twisted, with huge, black veins of corruption spreading up the skin as the Archdemon's tainted magic, its willpower, seeped its way through her body...

But there was nothing. Her arm was white, muscular...completely normal.

It hurt.

Then a new pain, once so intense so as to make the Warden's back arch and her eyes roll back into her head, flooded her senses. She felt tight, constricted, as though she was in a vice. The air was being pushed from her lungs as her body compressed, shoulders being forced backwards, fingers pressing together, spine twisting and crunching, under the weight of the pain. There was pressure everywhere, and the air around her buzzed and hummed with power. It heated her skin, the hot, burning touch doing little to soothe the freezing ache in her bones.

She must have been dying. Or she was cursed. Or both. She was dying and cursed, and just when she thought her head would cave in from the force: it stopped.

The Warden fell bonelessly into the bed. There was no pain; only exhaustion. Her bed, despite her twisting, was neatly made, and the only sign of her agitation was the sweat-soaked nightshirt she wore. Not even Dane, who was resting on one of the low couches in a corner of the room moved. The cold fabric lingered uncomfortably against her skin, but the Warden was unwilling to move to take it off. She feared the return of such dreadful pain. And so she lay flat on her back, her legs pressed together and her arms held tightly to her sides, completely unmoving.

She stayed that way until dawn, having slept only lightly and fitfully for the remainder of the night. She did not dream, but she had felt pulled, her body, her soul, stretched outwards to the west, to the sun. Still, despite the troubles, she had refused to get up, to acknowledge that _something _had happened, until the sky outside her windows went from black to grey. She would be damned if she let a curse, or a figment of her imagination, control her habits. She would rise when _she _wanted to. Not before.

Gingerly crawling out of bed, and then striding more confidently around the room once it was apparent that the pain was not coming back, the Warden got herself ready for the day. She washed and dressed, and then stepped into her armor. She strapped on each piece with care, noting the feeling in each mithril-clad limb and finger as she raised, wiggled, twisted, and finally lowered them. The Warden felt _normal. _She just didn't _trust _the sensations.

"What do you think, Dane?" she asked of the Mabari, who was sitting patiently at the door, staring longingly to get out. "Do you think I am going mad?" Swift fingers parted her combed hair and began to braid it into an immense, snakelike entity that slithered and swung down her back.

Dane only whined and pawed at the door.

"Heh." The Warden strode to her dresser and picked up the handful of pins she'd strewn across the top of it the night before. These she meticulously slipped into her hair, coiling the braid into a tight, efficient coil at the back of her head. "Well, fine." She sighed and moved to the door, giving Dane a playfully nudge to his rear, "let's get some breakfast, shall we?"

Dane was bounding down the hallway in front of her, and was already at the stairs by the time the Warden had shut and locked her door behind her, slipping her key into the leather pouch at her waist. She trotted after him, listening to the scrabble of his black, stubby nails on the floor. The Warden hummed quietly to herself as she descended the stairs after him. She was doing her best to strangle her feelings of unease at facing her Grey Wardens all at once. She did not really want to see Loghain, having still not forgiven him for his public undermining of her authority, nor did she particularly want to watch Anders and Nathaniel whispering quietly to one another and shooting her dark glances from the other end of the table (though she supposed it was better that they do that publicly than skulk around behind her back). Her only glimmer of joy was the possibility that Carver would say something nasty and provoke a fight, which would not only be highly entertaining to watch, but would also draw away some of the malcontent directed at her.

She caught up with Dane at the door leading into the Great Hall. His tiny tail was wiggling in anticipation, and the Warden closed her eye, took a deep breath, and forced the corners of her lips into a pleasant smile. Despite the animosity, this was still _much _easier than dressing up and bending to the wills of women like Lorna Bryland or the late Miriel Kendells. After all, if she somehow managed to soak herself head to toe in tea, she could simply leave, change her clothes, and come back. And if they laughed at her, she could whip them, make them run laps, or simply laugh with them. She had plenty of options - and having options was the best thing that one could have.

She opened the door, and now in plain sight of her Wardens, she comically gestured for Dane to enter the hall in front of her. With a wry smile, she closed the door behind her and made her way to the head of the breakfast table and to the seat that was open for her.

All the Grey Wardens were already there - Loghain to the left of her seat, with Sigrun just beyond him. Next to Sigrun at the other end of the table was Oghren. On the opposite side of the table sat Nathaniel Howe, Carver, and then Anders, and as much as the Warden's stomach flipped and flopped at the thought of having Nathaniel sit next to her, Carver's expression at being sandwiched between the two men indicated that he clearly thought he had the worst of it. It was obvious from the way Nathaniel and Anders were shooting each other triumphant smirks over Carver's hunched back that this had been planned. In the short time that he'd been at the keep, it was apparent that Nathaniel and Anders had discovered that Carver _hated _being talked over, and they were making use of his insecurities to drive the younger Grey Warden up the Great Hall's stone walls. The Warden was reminded of hellish dinner parties, forced to sit between women she knew would gossip over her head. It was bullying: plain and simple.

As the Warden approached her seat, she eyed the spread at the table. She was late, as she was finding she usually was, but this time she had at least arrived before the others had started eating. There was a large, iron pot at the center of the table, the handle of a huge wooden spoon sticking out over the rim. There were several platters of biscuits spread between the Wardens, one platter having been monopolized by Sigrun, who was surreptitiously shoving the sweet, crunchy circles into her mouth and then washing them down with what the Warden guessed was milk. Fruit was available too, as well as tea: good tea, by the smell of it. The Warden grew up with parents who were _very _particular about the leaves that went into their teapots, and so she _knew _the scent of Highever Grey, and thus _knew _that the tea in Loghain's mug was the very same.

This was the first thing she reached for: the pot of tea that rested by Loghain's elbow. She wasn't surprised to find that their best crockery and ornaments were being used, and that the teapot in her hands was heavy, brown, and scarred with use. It was like her, in a way. Or like Loghain. She filled her mug as high as she could, her good eye transfixed at the rising water level (distance and depth was sometimes an issue when pouring for her) while her other eye - her magical eye - observed the happenings at the table. Sigrun was chattering with Oghren, and Loghain was simply staring at his bowl of untouched porridge and shaking his head. Carver was doing likewise, but now that the Warden had sat down, Anders and Nathaniel were no longer paying attention to him. Their eyes were now fixated on _her. _

Nathaniel's stare was hot and unpleasant against her cheek. She lifted her mug to her lips and tilted her head to one side so that she could get a good look at him with her good eye. His pale eyes rested above a long, hooked nose that while not unattractive, reminded her unnecessarily of his "father." He _did _look like an older version of Thomas, and no doubt was what Thomas would have become if he had not stupidly come to the Landsmeet and tried to beat the nobles at their own game. Hopefully, Nathaniel had more sense than his brother. Seeking out Fergus Cousland would not be a _wise _thing to do. And if he _did _try, no doubt he'd meet not only Aurora's own blade, but likely Leliana's as well.

She swallowed deeply, enjoying the taste and sensation of the hot tea prickling against her tongue in bitter waves before it slithered down her throat. She had missed tea, specifically, Fereldan tea. Empress Celene had served her tea that had been made with flowers, and while it had been delicious, it had lacked the necessary strength, the bold volume and body, that the tea of her youth had. And then in Weisshaupt the tea had been bitter and dry. It had been brewed from the roots and bark of old trees, and had been as unpleasant to smell as to drink. Instead of warming her up, it had caused her insides to shrivel. No, nothing matched Fereldan tea.

She delicately put down the mug and reached her hand out for the porridge. No one had bothered to start eating; perhaps they had been waiting on her? The Warden did not know. She nearly jumped from her chair in shock when Nathaniel's gloved hand, soft as silk and yet as unyielding as stone shot out to cover hers.

"Allow me, _Commander,_" Nathaniel drawled, reaching forward to grab the thick wooden handle of the ladle. He wore an ugly smile, one that was all teeth. He was a black haired, pale-eyed predator, and he was looking at the bowl of porridge with a nasty expression. With his free hand he grabbed the Warden's bowl, and bringing it to the lip of the pot, he scooped the thick, grey-brown porridge inside it. It wobbled and wiggled as it fell from the ladle, the thick oat lumps forming unusual shapes and mounds.

The Warden suddenly found herself not hungry in the slightest. And when Nathaniel carefully and delicately placed the bowl down in front of her, flicking her spoon towards her with a long, well-formed index finger, that feeling didn't change. She stared at the bowl of porridge for a few moments, before flicking a curious gaze towards Nathaniel, who was watching her with the same nasty smile as before.

"What's the matter, _Commander,_" he asked, stressing her title with both his tone and the narrowing of his eyes, "don't you _trust _me?"

The Warden looked at the other Grey Wardens around the table. None of them were eating their porridge. She turned her eye back to Nathaniel. "Of course I do," she lied pleasantly.

"Good." Nathaniel's tongue darted out over his lip. "I would _hate _for you to think that I had somehow tampered with this morning's breakfast."

He meant poison, of course. He was, in a way, threatening to poison her. The Warden closed her eye and dipped her head. She smiled something vicious and rubbed her tongue against the back of her teeth. This was a terrible game they were playing - but the Warden was determined _to win. _"No," she said in a low voice, "I would _never _suspect you of such a thing." To prove her point, she didn't even bother picking up the spoon. Instead, she merely lifted the thin wooden bowl, placed it to her lips, and tilted her head back. The porridge slid down her throat as it had from the ladle: thick, lumpy, and in uneven clumps. It was coarse and tasteless, needing not only some salt but also a great deal of honey and dried fruit (though such accompaniments would have made the Warden's actions somewhat more dangerous, what with the possibility of choking on fruit and nuts). She placed the bowl back on the table and dramatically swiped her tongue around her lips, gathering the last of the porridge that lingered in the corners of her mouth.

Nathaniel looked gobsmacked.

Aurora flashed him a smile of teeth flecked with oats. "In fact, I am so _ravenous,_" she drawled, patting her stomach for emphasis, "I could eat _everything _in that pot. And in your bowls too. Pass them up."

The other Wardens at the table shot her curious stares at the command.

"You heard me," the Warden grinned, "bowls up here, please. Your Commander is starving."

They did as they were ordered, and did so, to her pleasure, silently. The only reprimand she received was from Loghain, and his blue eyes were about as cold and closed as she had seen them. For that, she started with _his _porridge first.

She devoured each bowl like she had the first, raising it to her lips, tilting her head backwards, and letting the porridge crawl its way down her throat. And when she was done, she reached for the pot, ladled in the remainder, and did the same. Her stomach was full to bursting, and could feel the porridge mixing and swirling inside her, expanding and trying to find its way back up her throat and into her mouth. Some of it did, and this she politely swallowed with a nauseated expression behind her napkin. Grey Warden or not, she did not have the appetite, or the physical ability, to consume enough porridge to feed a small army.

But every ounce of agony and nausea was worth Nathaniel Howe's stony expression. His earlier smugness was gone, replaced with something much more subdued. For all she knew, he probably _had _poisoned her (there was an irritable rumbling in her bowels that suggested that were was indeed some foul play on Nathaniel's part), but she was convinced that she was strong enough to combat it. No one had managed to kill her yet, and she would be _damned _if that honor went to Nathaniel Howe. No, if someone had to kill her, it should be herself. She was the only person truly deserving of that "honor."

The chatter at the table was quiet, and the Warden could stand it only for a few more minutes before her body began to get the better of her. She did not want her Wardens seeing her green in the face, or clutching her stomach in pain, and so she made up some excuse that she had letters to write, and that she would be in her study. She stood (and not too quickly, because that would be _suspicious_) and gave them all a wry smile before striding slowly - confidently - to the door. Dane was at her heels, having apparently eaten his fill from Sigrun, who had been offering him biscuits during the Warden's brinkmanship with Nathaniel.

As soon as the door to the Great Hall shut behind her, the Warden was racing up the stairs to her room. She had a hand to her mouth, as if covering her lips with her gauntlet would somehow contain the oat and bile mixture that was beginning to push its way up her throat and into the back of her mouth. Her hand struggled with the key, trying to fit into the lock, and her concentration lost in the door opening effort, her shoulders heaved and a splatter of vomit erupted from her throat and out of her mouth. It trailed down her chin and splattered on her breastplate, and it was with a strangled sob and a red, tear-filled face that she finally managed to open the door. She didn't bother to wipe away her sick, she just kicked her door shut loudly behind her and fled to where her chamber pot rested.

She emptied the contents of her gut into the chamber pot, letting it mix with whatever was still left inside it from her ablutions that morning. The smell of it, in addition to the feel of the vomit in her mouth, made her gag and choke, and her shoulders continued to heave long after everything had been expelled from her body. Hot bile and saliva splashed into the pot, along with salty, strained tears. The Warden had to finally throw herself away from the stench and the sensations, and she rested on the floor. Her forehead pressed against the cool wood, providing immediate relief to her feverish skin. The prickling in her bowels remained, but the Warden was unwilling to move, lest Nathaniel's tricks get the better of her.

Dane snuffled his way beside her, resting his heavy body against her back so that she might have some support. He panted beside her, and the Warden quieted her breathing and matched it to his. She needed to rest; it only had to be an hour or two, no longer than that, but she needed time to herself. She stayed where she was on the floor, finding the unyielding wood to be a comfort. She didn't need anything soft or warm, she needed something cold, hard, and unforgiving. The floor gave her that.

She slept for as long as she could, falling into the dreamless sleep that came so frequently to her. She used to have terrible dreams - dark dreams - of the Archdemon. But since its death, there had been nothing. At least, nothing she could remember.

The toe of a boot - sharp and hard - nudged the back of her head.

"This is pathetic."

The Warden's eye flashed open and she was already scrambling to get on her feet, reaching for her sword and her shield as instinct overcame common sense. She realized all too late that her shield was resting against the wall, which - for the intruder's safety - halted her progress at pulling out her sword. She stared, wide-eyed and sleep-ridden at Loghain, who was staring at her with his arms crossed across his chest and Dane sitting happily at his side, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

"What," the Warden growled, "is pathetic?"

"_You,_" Loghain replied sharply, "are pathetic. I find you not in your study, as you said you would be. Instead, I come to the next logical place and I find the key still in the lock and you sprawled out on your floor like some drunk in an alleyway."

The Warden's eye narrowed. "You think that is pathetic? Loghain, I could have been lying on the floor _dead, _and yet the first thing you _DARE _to do is to kick me in the head and insult me? You are a _bigger _bastard than I thought!"

Loghain rolled his eyes. "Your flare for the dramatic is wasted on me. If you had been dead, Dane would _not _have been sitting at your side contentedly. He would have been much more proactive and come to find me, was that the case. But," Loghain seemed to soften; not physically, but in the gentle droop of his eyes and the quieting of his voice, "thankfully, that was not the case."

"Yes indeed. _Thankfully,_" she said stiffly, "it was not."

"Do you have any paint?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Loghain sighed. "Woman's paint. For your face?"

"What about my face?" The Warden touched the tips of her gauntlets to her cheeks and nose. "Is it bruised?"

"Look in the mirror," Loghain gestured to the object in question.

The Warden shot Loghain a curious look and moved to her vanity. She hunched in front of it, resting her weight one hand while the other probed at her features. The Warden was unsure how she felt about Loghain noticing the state of her features - on the one hand it meant he still found her attractive and physically pleasing, on the other it also meant that he was considering her superficial qualities. She didn't muse on this for long, as she found the source of Loghain's concern: veins under her skin had burst. The force of her heaving and ruptured the delicate network of blood vessels in her cheeks, nose, and chin, leaving her with a red, blotchy appearance as well as a spidery patchwork of visible veins.

"That is," the Warden murmured roughly, "unfortunate."

"I know that," Loghain approached her and put a hand on her pauldron, "you are secretive by nature when it comes to the state of your health. You wouldn't want your Grey Wardens to know that something has ailed you."

The Warden said nothing at his assessment of her quirks. He was right, and he knew that she knew he was right. She didn't need to reaffirm anything.

"I probably," she said after some length, "have some paint lying around somewhere. Let's be honest, it isn't as though I get the opportunity to wear it very often."

"And it won't last very long today, I'm afraid..." Loghain turned away from her and stalked to the opposite of her room and picked up her shield. "Cauthrien," he frowned when he heard her hiss at the name, "_Cauthrien _and I have been busy planning a new training routine for the Grey Wardens. After what you told me about how the Grey Wardens in Weisshaupt trained, Cauthrien and I both think that it would be wise to do something similar here at the Vigil. She would like to run practice drills with all the Wardens fighting at once, but it was my suggestion that we should limit the engagements to four Wardens at a time - at least until we're all comfortable with each other's styles."

"All right," the Warden said, busy turning her face first to one side, then to the other, to examine the extent of her damage. "That sounds fine to me. Do I have to sign something?"

Loghain scoffed. "No. You just need to come."

"And when do I show up?" She poked at her cheek.

"Now."

The hand fell away. "What?"

Loghain's pale face was lit with amusement. "You left breakfast so early you didn't hear my announcement."

"And what announcement was that?"

"All Grey Wardens were to report to the training yard at midday for instruction."

"And what if I had _things _to do at midday?" The Warden pushed away from the vanity and turned to face Loghain. "What if I had meetings?"

"You'd have to delay them," was his smug response.

"I think you are forgetting," the Warden stalked towards him and snatched her shield from his hands, "who is the Warden Commander here."

"Am I?" Loghain's blue eyes narrowed. "If you want to _play _as Commander, by all means, please continue what you are doing. Continue to hide in your study and your room, and eat your meals alone. But when you're ready to start _being _the Warden Commander, feel free to actually show up to dinner on time and spend time with the people who've been condemned to the same miserable existence as you."

"How _dare _you say such a thing," she growled, slinging her shield over her shoulder. "I am _Arlessa _Cousland, Warden Commander of Ferelden. It is my _job _to see to this Arling, just as it is my job to see to the Grey Wardens. However, what good can the Grey Wardens be while their home is in shambles and their territory unprotected? Have you had your ear to the common people, Loghain?" Seeing his expression she nodded, "no, I didn't think so. You've been too busy holing yourself with your former Second in Command, dreaming of the old days." She gave a sniff of indignation. "We are only as welcome in Ferelden as long as the people accept us. Right now, all they know is that Grey Wardens don't just kill darkspawn, they also _attract _them."

"And all your Grey Wardens know is that you have a heavy hand and a terrible attitude."

"I _saved _Nathaniel Howe from the noose," the Warden poked her finger into Loghain's breastplate. "He was ready to desert. Sigrun said it herself."

"Twenty-four lashes, Aurora?"

She counted off Nathaniel's transgressions on her fingers. "Threat of desertion, striking a superior officer, disrespecting a superior officer, as well as conduct becoming of a Grey Warden. How exactly am _I _the one at fault here?"

Loghain gave a disgusted shake of his head. "If you have to whip a man to obey you, then you are doing it wrong, Aurora."

"It is becoming very clear to me," the Warden said in a silky voice, "that I am clearly turning my attention to the _wrong _disobedient Grey Warden." She blinked in surprise at Loghain's sudden chuckle.

"I should have waited longer," Loghain said with an incredulous shake of his head. "I shouldn't have forced your hand at the Landsmeet, because it has become painfully obvious to me that if I'd had more patience, I would have won the war."

"You would never have won."

"Oh no," Loghain shook his head, "this is where you're wrong. You see, Aurora, you demand respect based on simply who you are. You do not earn it. And to some, those who've bought into your pedigree and the myths about your legendary sword skills, this is enough. But to others, it isn't. You would have gotten an army so large that you wouldn't have had any idea what to do with it. Your commanders wouldn't have had any idea what to do with you either. No," he chuckled again, this time bitterly, "I didn't need to draw you out or try to alienate you: you would have done it all on your own. And that is why I would have won, because Aurora Cousland won't _earn _her respect."

Fire burned in the Warden's cheeks, and she felt her teeth chattering as hot adrenaline washed itself through her veins. But it was second nature now for the Warden to school her expression into one of cold neutrality, and so if there really was heat on her cheeks, Loghain wouldn't be able to see it. Her lips quirked upward into a nasty smile. "Leave," she said in a husky voice, "or apologize."

Dane rumbled something pitiful in his throat and padded over to the Warden. He stuck his head below her hand, licking at her gauntlets with his tongue. His mistress was unmoving, the only thing about her in motion was the quartz orb spinning away behind the pearl-studded eye patch.

"I know you're angry, Aurora," Loghain's hands came to rest on her upper arms, "and that's exactly what I want you to feel."

"You are mistaken," she lied calmly. "I feel absolutely nothing."

"You're lying to me."

"Does it matter if I am?"

"Aurora, you _need _to integrate. You cannot be Warden Commander in name only."

"I'm not." She pulled away from his hands. "But you seem to be concerned with only _one _of my duties. I'm Arlessa - "

"I've been involved in running Ferelden for longer than you've been alive," Loghain interrupted sharply, "I _know _what it takes to run a country, let alone an Arling. Whatever it is you do all day by yourself is not necessary."

"Do not _presume _to tell me what is and isn't necessary," she scolded, her voice tinged with warning. "You have never run an Arling under these circumstances. Also," she shook her head, "you need to not jump to conclusions. We haven't even been in Amaranthine a week, and you are already accusing me of not doing my duties. Let the Builders' Council pass, and then feel free to judge me."

"By that time, it will already be too late. You set," he sighed deeply, "a very powerful precedent when you set Nathaniel Howe on a stake to be whipped. If you wish to be known as a disciplinarian, then by all means do so. But make sure at the same time you are being known as a _respectful _and _fair _leader too."

"And whose example do I emulate then?" The Warden stuck out her hip and pressed her lips together. "Yours? Loghain Mac Tir, Regent of Ferelden?"

Loghain had the sense to shake his head and give a self-deprecating laughter. "I was thinking more along the lines of your father."

At the mention of her father, the tension in the Warden's mouth slackened and her shoulders sagged.

"Bryce may have had some..." Loghain licked his lips as he seemed to search for the words, "questionable political leanings, but no one could say that your father wasn't a fair man. He may not have been a man of the common people, but he could at least respect them and hear their cases fairly."

"Do you know what his last words to me were?" The Warden put a hand to her breastplate, felt the clamoring of her heart below the metal. Her eye was fixed on Loghain's face, but she was seeing beyond it, beyond him, far into the past. "He was dying, we were at the passage out of our castle, him, mother, myself, and Duncan. I refused to go, to leave him and mother behind. I said I wanted to stay and fight beside them, to die with them defending our home. He didn't want that. He bade me go with Duncan, and when I did not, Duncan conscripted me. But," she shook her head, "it did not matter, I still did not leave. So he," she paused, licked her lips, mouth hanging open as she took in an unsteady breath, "so he said to me, '_Pup, I am embarrassed. You've disappointed me._' And that was the last I heard from him, because that was also the moment when Duncan brought the edge of his pommel into my skull. So when you speak to me," her voice pitched high and her grey eye focused sharply on Loghain's face, "about my father, next time: do not."

Loghain's eyes widened at the revelation, and he took a surprised step backward. "Aurora - "

"You need to," the Warden gestured to the door with her head, feeling strangely hollow and cold inside, "leave. It is midday, or past it, and the Wardens are waiting."

"I..." he sighed. "Yes." He stiffened and strode to the door, hesitating when he touched the door handle.

"Get out," she said, seeing his faltering steps.

Loghain did not reply, he merely nodded before stepping out.

Left in silence with Dane, the Warden covered her dry face with her hands.

She did not attend that day's practice session.

Nor did she attend the next day's.

Or the day after that's.

She also did not attend breakfast, lunch, or dinner in the Great Hall. She instead took her meals in her room, having ordered Varel, who she had met skulking in the hallway outside her door, to deliver them there since she was "indisposed due to the unnatural quagmire of politics." He nodded sympathetically, seeming to understand her predicament. Varel did not expect her to be spiteful or capricious, and so complied with her requests in his gracious, dulcet tones.

With only Dane and the rustling of her papers for company, the Warden's distractions were limited to those few times when she ran out of ink. She wrote drafts upon drafts of letters, as well as excerpts of the speech she was planning to give at the Builders' Council. She was confident in her knowledge as to the extent of the Vigil's damage, as well as the Arling's own troubles. She could recite all the specifics by rote, and anything she forgot, she could find easily enough in the handy pile of references she had created. But no matter how much work she did, no matter how much she spoke aloud to herself, nothing drowned out the silence of her self-imposed exile.

Grey Wardens were not meant for solitude. She understood why the Wardens at Weisshaupt blanched at the idea of being alone. Disconnected from the larger whole, she felt disoriented, light headed, and there was a buzzing in her ears that would not go away. The Warden - Aurora - loved herself, perhaps more than humility and modesty allowed; but in the silence, in the vacuum of her thoughts, she could not stand her own company. It was lacking; _she _was, in some way, lacking. She was disappointing. She was disappointed. She wondered if she loved herself extra hard to make up for the deficit around her.

It did not make her sad. It did not make her angry. It just made her nothing.

And so late one night, still dressed in her armor and having not slept for two days, the Warden crept out from her room (leaving Dane blissfully asleep in her bed) and across the hall to a door that should have been familiar, but was not. She put her hand on the handle, and found it unlocked. She opened it quietly, stepping in as silently as one could when dressed head to toe in full armor.

The room was dark, the only light coming in thin, pale strips through the thick glass of the two, lonely windows. It was easy to make out the shadow of the large, four poster bed that dominated the majority of the room's space, and it was to this that she stalked. In the darkness and the silence, the Warden crawled atop the bed, and settled herself on its very edge so that she would not disturb the bed's already sleeping occupant. Exhausted and unmoving, the Warden eventually drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, comfortable in the company she was now keeping.

So deep was her sleep that she did not even stir when Loghain awoke later that night and, upon recognizing her profile in the moonlight, settled close to her, stroking the side of her face with his fingers and murmuring, "Aurora, what am I to do with you?"

That she did not hear him was for the best.

* * *

_I am a firm believer that actions should have consequences. So while Aurora may be Little Miss Warden a lot of the time, I do always like to remind her, and readers too, that you reap what you sow. So for those of you who were waiting for some comeuppance re: Nathaniel, there you have it. You just had to have a little faith in me (oh ho, where have we heard this before!). _

_Thank you, lovely readers, for following Trovommi Amor and giving it your support. We'll be seeing some of that group combat training that Loghain mentioned soon enough, including Carver taking his shirt off and being mocked by Oghren for not having enough hair. In my head, Carver is delicious eyecandy. _

_And before we close this chapter, I do have to give a plug to another story. Gene Dark, Shakespira, and I have co-written a story called _The Grey Tales_, which details the founding of the Grey Wardens. We wrote it for the BiowareBang Livejournal challenge, and it was an absolute blast. You can find the Grey Tales under our combined penname "Genespira Cold," or by searching for stories with Duncan and Alistair as the leads. Alternatively, you can just mosey on over to my profile and click the link there! Also, if you need incentive to read it...I only have one word for you: griffons. Yes, that's right, _The Grey Tales _has griffons. And not only that: griffon riding! Totally awesome stuff. _


	50. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

"Are you coming to breakfast?"

"I will have to, won't I?"

The Warden was seated on the edge of Loghain's bed, her head in her hands, as she rubbed away the cold, dreamless sleep of the night before. Her mind felt drowsy, awoken too early from a desperately needed sleep. But her senses weren't as sluggish as her mind, and the mage-eye behind the leather of her eye patch gave her a clear enough view of the room, and her keen ears picked up the shifting and creaking of the floorboards as Loghain came to a halt at the bedside. He was standing above her, looking down his impressive nose at her, all immaculate shining armor and well-groomed braids. It was obvious that he had woken sometime before her, shaved and tended to his ablutions, and dressed. He smelled like soap and polish. And she, still in the armor she had worn yesterday, her braid fraying and hair straying, was still slashing away at the sleepy cobwebs that clung to her eyelids. She put a hand to her mouth and yawned. Yawning was a good way to mask the feelings of embarrassment and self-loathing that had arrived upon her waking. She was shamed; she had given into weakness. Unable to carry on privately and stoically, she had fallen into Loghain's bed, crawling into it in the dead of night like a scolded cat.

"That is," he admonished, "not the answer I was looking for."

"I am moody in the mornings," she drawled, yawning again, this time with a loud, over-emphatic groan and an almost comical rolling of her head and neck.

"You are moody all the damn time."

"I _did _warn you," she replied. She rubbed the sleep from her grey eye once more, careful not to disturb the leather strap of her eye patch that concealed the mage-eye. "Side effects of the Joining are not limited to an increase in appetite. Expect general surliness, moodiness, and a desire to wipe the smirks off other people's faces." It was also a side-effect of the mage-eye. The eye was always watchful, always spinning, and so even when the Warden was asleep she was, in part, awake. Input from the mage-eye occasionally influenced her dreams, turning palatial rooms into wooded forests and vice-versa depending on where she had settled down to sleep.

Loghain grunted something and rolled his eyes. "You need to come to breakfast."

The Warden lifted her shoulders and dropped them repeatedly, making her pauldrons clatter against her breastplate. For having spent the night huddled in the corner of Loghain's bed, she was not as sore as she expected. She surmised she had just grown used to sleeping in her armor. "I need to get _ready. _Would you have me come to breakfast and be _late_?"

"Better that you are there than not at all." Loghain sighed and sat beside her on the bed. "If you won't do it for yourself, and you won't do it for me, do it at least for the boy you brought into this mess."

Loghain had, for better or worse, drawn a line in the sand. He had told the Warden, in words that he felt she needed to hear, that she was not fulfilling her duties. Where her Wardens were concerned, she was lacking. And where her politics were concerned, she was too focused. She had to leave off one to reinforce the other. But thoughts of "me" and "my problems" fell to the periphery of her mind as she considered what Loghain had said. "What do you mean?" She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head curiously

"Carver's been on the receiving end of general Grey Warden maliciousness while you've been away."

"Let me guess," she groaned, "Nathaniel and Anders?"

"Yes."

"What are they doing?"

"What do you expect they're doing?" Loghain shook his head. "If they aren't asking him questions and then deliberately ignoring his answers, then they're acting up in the training grounds."

"How so?"

Loghain let out a dry chuckle. "Come out this afternoon and see for yourself."

"I will." The Warden narrowed her eye. "On one condition."

"What is it?"

"That you do your share of the administrative work."

Loghain frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but was promptly silenced by the placement of the Warden's gauntleted fingers against his lips. The touch wasn't gentle, and Loghain's bottom lip was dragged downward with the angle of the Warden's wrist.

"In order to save us future embarrassment and future hardship, let me tell you how this partnership will work," the Warden began. She removed her finger from Loghain's lips, letting it hover in the air for a few moments to see if he would try and interrupt. Seeing only Loghain's expectant gaze, she lowered her hand to her lap and pressed on. "If you want me to spend more time with the Grey Wardens and less time acting as Arlessa, then you will need to shoulder more of the administrative burden. I _cannot,_" and she said this with vehemence, "go traipsing around Ferelden with the Grey Wardens and leave the Arling to run itself. That is not how it worked in Highever, and I am quite sure that is _not _how it worked in Denerim or Gwaren." She saw by the deepening of the crease in Loghain's brow that she was probably right - after all, Loghain had thrown himself into the role of king-by-proxy, running Ferelden while Maric did what Maric wanted to do, and Loghain couldn't deny that he had relied on the help of Maric's privy council.

"And how do you - "

She scowled. "Let me finish."

"My apologies."

The Warden closed her eye and shook her head. "I know you hate politics, but if _you _want me to do this, then _you _must make a sacrifice of your own. While I train the Wardens, while I lead them to hunt down darkspawn, you must see to the people of the Arling. It is irresponsible to do otherwise. The Grey Wardens need a leader, and so does the Arling. And," she fixed him with a stern gaze and took a quiet breath, "if you cannot assist me while I am away, if you cannot bear to stomach the burden of politics once more, then you _will _take the Grey Wardens out, and I _will _see to the people of the Arling, and I will do so with no complaints from you."

Loghain licked at his lips. "May I speak?"

"Not if it is in disagreement." She laughed bitterly, the low peal of laughter bubbling up from the roiling, toiling storm of her insides. "I can do a great many things, but I cannot do the duties you ask of me without somehow excluding others I must attend to - necessary duties in their own right. This is," she struggled to form the words, her shoulders lifting and her brow crinkling, "still too new."

"I see." Loghain inhaled deeply and said nothing more for a few moments. His nostrils flared as he exhaled. "What about Seneschal Varel?"

"No! _You._" The Warden scolded. "And to think, you suggest that _I _am the coward? Do not shift the burden elsewhere. I have given you my terms. If you will not accept them, then you must take me, the Arling, and the Grey Wardens as they are."

A long silence passed between them, and Loghain sat looking at his hands throughout it. He did what she had seen him do before, turning his hands palm up, then palm down. Hairy, scarred, and rough, his hands were a man's hands, a farmer's hands, a soldier's hands. "If," Loghain said slowly, "you come to the practice yard, this afternoon, I will give you my answer." He did not look at her as he spoke.

The Warden had felt those hands on her - they cupped swells and mounds, and stroked down heated skin, traced scars and birthmarks, and held her body still. They'd been tangled in her hair roughly, and stroked through her hair with deliberate precision. The hands had inflicted bruises, but they had also held wounds shut to stop the bleeding. Loghain's hands had done many things for her, to harm her, but to also heal her. She knew each callus as her own, as well as every pebbled vein and scratched knuckle. She liked Loghain's hands. Even when she was angry with him.

"I _intended,_" the Warden stood and used the opportunity this time to look down at him, "to be there _anyway. _ Until then, I will await your answer." She heard Loghain's footsteps behind her, shadowing her all the way to his door. Respite, an opportunity to gather her thoughts without scrutiny, was not forthcoming.

"You are coming to breakfast?"

"Yes, yes." She waved an angry gauntlet away from the large hands he rested on her pauldrons. "I said I would come, and so I shall be there. Give me a few moments to at least wash my face and address the state of my hair." She knew she looked a sight, and thinking herself properly explained, she left. But Loghain was still on her heels, hounding her all the way into her own room. "What is it?" she asked, turning to face him. She put her hands on her hips and frowned at him, doing her best to bring the thin slivers of her eyebrows together in her deepest, most fierce scowl. "You are following me." And she did not like it.

Loghain had gone from pensive to something else entirely. He laughed - easily and rather kindly - at her expression. "Why the accusation? It is my duty to follow you." He looked at her in a way that she hadn't seen for a long time. It was not the wondrous way he watched her when she was naked, nor was it the cold, stormy stare of his anger and disappointment. This was tender, amused, somewhat reserved, and..._fatherly. _

The Warden felt her good eye twitch. "Do not look at me like that." It was not all that long ago that she'd blurted out to him what her last moments with her father had been. She had, in the face of someone who was both an enemy and an ally, admitted a weakness; something that was haunting her. She had meant it in warning, to stave off future moments of sentimentality, of pretentious nostalgia. The revelation had not been to extend a hand, to give some startling insight into who and what she was, though it seemed to her that Loghain had taken it that way.

Normally, they fought with all the fury at their disposal. Loghain attacked with the slap of his experience, and the jaw-shattering punch of age. The Warden drove her thumbs into the eyes of wisdom with her youth, and ripped at its throat with the indefatigable energy and righteousness that came with it. Even their most petty squabbles were approached in the same manner - one did not need to be explosive or bombastic to be cruel. They could be subtle: Orlais had been an example of that. But clearly, this wasn't a fight, or if it was, it was a one-sided one. The Warden's anger was being weathered by Loghain's curious approach... one that the Warden could only assume had been born from her admission a few nights previous.

And if that was the case, it was unsettling how well Loghain knew her father, how well he had _watched _both she and he interact over the course of her years. Because her father rarely ever fought with her. If she took issue, he laughed. He chuckled at her resentment, found it amusing. Of course, there were times when her father became angry with her, and she became angry with him, and those fights were as cold and momentous as the carving of a valley by a glacier. But for the most part, Bryce Cousland met Aurora Cousland's ire with good humor.

And now Loghain Mac Tir was doing the same - and it would not stand.

She could not indulge the vulnerability.

Loghain raised a black eyebrow. "Like how?" His expression had not changed, in fact, it had worsened. He was now smiling.

"Like _that._"

"And how is it that I am looking?"

"Like," the Warden licked at her lips and chewed the words, "like my _father."_

He had the decency to give a loud scoff.

"Loghain," the Warden drew away to the far side of her bedroom as she spoke, trying to put distance between them, "this is awkward. I will meet you in the hallway in a few minutes..." A foot clad in heavy boots knocked over a pile of books against the wall, sending them crashing to the ground. Dane awoke at the sound.

"Awkward how?"

She too two deep breaths, considering her words carefully. "You are _not _my father. You are my Second."

"And," he added pointedly, "your lover."

"Yes, and my lover." She pursed her lips. Consider how being my father, or a replacement of him, would make that difficult for both of us."

"Aurora," and with this Loghain stalked towards her, coming close enough so that he could rest his hands upon her shoulders, "I have no intention of being your father. But the last girl your age I dealt with when she was maudlin_ was _my daughter. You'll have to excuse me if I resort to tried and true battle strategies. I'm far too old to deal with it any other way."

"If," the Warden stiffened and pulled away again, "I am maudlin, it is _your _doing."

Loghain let out a grunt of frustration. "Maker, girl, can I say nothing right?"

"At this point? Probably not."

"Get it through your head: it is _only _because I care. I shouldn't, but I do."

The Warden shook her head. "I understand; but sometimes it is better to just say nothing and leave me be than to persist in...in..." She couldn't even think of the words.

Loghain took her silence as an opportunity to act. But when he took her face in his hands she resisted, turning her face away from the lips that fell upon her. A kiss meant for her forehead landed on her temple, and she felt Loghain's warm breath reeking of sleep blowing against her hair. There had been moments like this before, angry moments and sad moments, all breathed into life by tempers flaring and doors being slammed in the Great Castle of Highever.

"You are a curious, prideful girl."

"Like chewing on pearls." She bristled at his laughter, the rueful chuckle, and the fatherly touch of his fingers against her shoulder once more as they wheedled their way past metal to press against the leather below it. Loghain was not giving up. No matter what she said, she could not drive him away. She could not stop him from making her feel _vulnerable. _"I need to finish getting ready. And I need to do something about my hair." She tipped her head forward, displaying her crown of messy and matted curls for an affectionate kiss, letting Loghain believe that he had won - because that was the only way this would end. She could win the war, even if she let herself lose this battle. There was nothing wrong in an intentional, calculated loss.

Loghain didn't kiss her forehead, but he seemed to sense the gesture and nodded. "I'll wait in the hall."

"Thank you." The Warden watched him pick his way to the door, Dane happily trailing after him and barking at him to hold the door open just a few more moments so that he could squeeze through. When both Mabari and Second were gone, she quickly put herself together. She pulled off her gauntlets and eye patch, scrubbed at her face, combed and styled her hair, and then using what precious paint she had, she covered the healing splotches of red and broken veins over her nose and cheeks. Knowing that she did not have enough time to strip and change, she settled for rubbing a cloth over her breastplate and other pieces of armor until they were shining. She also, for whatever vain reason, dabbed some scented oil that had somehow found its way into her possession (likely left over from when Andraste had commanded the Vigil) behind her ears, on the front of her throat, and then on the tips of her pauldrons. Let her Wardens at least think that she didn't _smell. _When at least she felt properly groomed, she fit the eye patch on her head once more.

She met Loghain in the hallway with a half-smiled plastered on her face. "Do I look suitable?"

"Yes." Loghain was smirking. "I never would have guessed from your appearance that you've been sulking for several days."

The Warden brushed past him. There was no use in persisting with the argument. She heard his footsteps in the hall behind her, as well as the gentler padding of Dane's large paws. Down the hall they went, down the stairs, and into the hall where the Grey Wardens took their breakfast. The air smelt like fresh bread and honey, though there was also the bitter tang of sliced apples - spiced apples - too.

She breezed towards the table, walking on the tips of her toes as she used to do back in Highever when she was late to breakfast. Varel was waiting for her at her chair at the head of the table, and the Seneschal of the Vigil dutifully pulled it out for her. With knowledge that Loghain was watching her from the corner of his eye, she thanked Varel with a light touch to his own armored hand and then turned to face her Wardens.

Loghain was to her left, Carver was to her right, and next to Loghain sat Sigrun, and next to Carver sat Oghren. At the ends of the table were Anders and Nathaniel. Carver had managed to escape their animosity this morning, though that did not stop him (or them, for that matter) from looking down the length of the table with narrowed eyes. Sigrun was clutching her bowl of porridge in her hands, and shooting the Warden furtive glances. Her grip seemed to tighten when she saw Carver casually slide his bowl of porridge towards the Warden with a finger.

"Don't suppose you want this?" he asked.

The Warden chuckled and shook her head. "No, not today. I had a large supper, and it has not yet left my stomach. I think though," she stretched over the table and tore off a hunk of bread with her hands, and then fished around for a honey pot, "that I will have some of this." She settled the pot of honey next to the butter, and then spread both delicious substances over the bread. Gold smothered white, and the Warden didn't stop until honey was leaking down the sides of the hunk of bread. She licked away the runaway droplets with tiny flicks of her pink tongue, flashing white teeth at Carver who was looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

Conversation at the table was mild, if not deceptively pleasant. Anders and Nathaniel kept to themselves, murmuring at one another from across the table in tones too low to make out the words. Not that anyone could have, even if they'd tried. Oghren had enough volume to his voice that could fill the expanse of the hall, and he was using this to great effect, belching loudly and exclaiming satisfaction. Sigrun was alternating between wrinkling her nose and putting a hand to her mouth to hide her snickering and girlish smiles. Carver was doing his best to ignore the dwarf completely, and had his attention fixed firmly on the Warden. Loghain was left out of most of the interaction, and merely watched what was happening. They looked like normal Grey Wardens. They were acting like normal Grey Wardens.

"Are we training this afternoon?" asked Sigrun to the Warden. Her large eyes were still half-shut from her smiling.

The Warden inclined her head to Loghain. "I assume yes."

Loghain saw the queue and nodded. "Indeed."

"We'll continue the rounds from yesterday."

Sigrun burst out into another wide smile. "You know what that means?"

Carver groaned.

"That means some broody human is going to get to know the dirt _very _well!"

"It isn't fair. You're half my size. If I hit you, I'll kill you."

"Nah," Sigrun shook her head, and sent her braids flying. "I'm a dwarf. Made of rock, remember?"

"Rock can shatter if it's dropped from a high enough ledge."

"You aren't tall enough for that."

"Meh," Carver pushed away his plate of half-eaten food. "It still doesn't feel right."

"Carver," the Warden rested her elbow on the table and leaned over it, "she can take more of a beating than you or I can."

Sigrun nodded at her words. "Legion of the Dead." She jammed a thumb into her leather-patched tunic. "That's me."

"I'll do it," Carver grumbled, "I just won't like doing it."

"Bah," it was Oghren who spoke, "the boy can't do it. He's all wishy washy. Wiggly. Like a worm." He belched.

"A bit early to be drinking," Loghain commented mildly, "don't you think?"

Oghren patted his flask. "Never too early."

"No wonder your wife left you." Carver flashed Oghren a contemptuous stare.

"_I_ left _her_! And it's none of your soddin' business!"

"That's right," the Warden interrupted quickly, "it isn't our business. However, I _have _sent the letter to Felsi. We shall have to see what she says." She saw fear flash over Oghren's face. "It'll be for the best. A child _needs _a father."

Oghren only grumbled something under his red beard and reached for his flask.

The Warden was as equally as reluctant to discuss her own family in public, let alone another Warden's. In that, at least, she had some empathy, and it was what stayed her tongue from wagging. She knew Oghren; prosthelytizing had little effect on the dwarf. Oghren couldn't be quilted into anything by another person if he didn't want to be, such a thing only worked if Oghren could bring himself to do it. A discussion in private would not help, but having Felsi and the child in proximity to him would spur Oghren to act. And if it did not... it was the least that the Grey Wardens, or at least the Warden Commander of Ferelden, owed Felsi for her sacrifice. Even if the two never reconciled but Felsi decided to stay in Amaranthine or the Vigil, it meant that the Grey Wardens were expanding their influence.

And that influence was _everything. _

Everyone knew that the Grey Wardens were excellent trading partners. Val Royeaux and cities like it had large quarters dedicated to Grey Warden families, and such quarters were often bustling centers of trade. Everywhere except Ferelden knew the worth of the Grey Wardens, just as the Grey Wardens knew their own worth.

Everyone knew that where Grey Wardens resided, so too did hundreds of vendors and traders from all corners of Thedas, all trying to sell their wares at reasonable prices to attract the attention of the Grey Wardens. Grey Wardens needed housing, clothes, armor, weapons, food - and their families needed a variety of other living essentials. Grey Wardens would accept cheaply made weapons, but they also knew the worth of a strong, well-made sword and a quality breastplate. And if they didn't, they soon would when they felt the fists of a genlock or the sword of a hurlock colliding with their chest. Grey Wardens needed quality tools to do their jobs - and they were willing to pay for them.

And everyone also knew that those cities that housed Grey Wardens benefited greatly from those vendors. There were taxes and tariffs and rent to be collected. Moreover, because of the variety of goods available for the Grey Wardens, there was consequently a variety of goods available to the general population of that city as well, due to the natural economic spillover. Vendors were not particularly picky when it came to their customers, so long as they could pay. Often, this resulted in a city with happier, more enriched citizens, for their life was made better by the variety of goods they had access to.

Everyone knew this except Ferelden.

But the Warden knew it. She had seen it with her own eye. If she could create a Grey Warden compound, she could begin to attract the business that Amaranthine needed to recover. That Ferelden needed to recover. In fact, she didn't even need to create a Grey Warden compound, she just needed to make it worthwhile for the vendors to come to Amaranthine and trade with her. What could she do? She could double, even triple the amount of Grey Wardens in her ranks, but that seemed foolish given that she'd yet to master having even six Wardens under her command. She bemoaned the structural necessities of ruling; things had been much simpler when she had been working against the law, rather than within it. Short of recruiting, she wasn't sure what else was available to her. There was always the possibility of claiming the Silver Order as a Grey Warden auxiliary branch, and using them as a pretext for her need...

"Commander?"

The Warden shook her head to clear her thoughts. "Oh, yes?"

Loghain let out a small sigh. "I am going to take my leave and see Cauthrien about the afternoon's training."

"Of course." The Warden inclined her head. "You are excused."

When Loghain was safely out of the hall, the Warden found herself on the receiving end of a surprising sort of smile coming from Carver. It was one that she hadn't seen in a _long _time, not since before the Blight. Not since Alistair. It was a bold smile, one that she hadn't ever expected to see coming from someone like _Carver. _With Alistair, the smile had been quite natural. Both of them were Grey Wardens. They were the last two Grey Wardens. They were surrounded by friends in an otherwise hostile environment. That smile was to be expected. The circumstance was not the same for her and Carver. While they were both Grey Wardens, they were not exactly the "last" Grey Wardens. Moreover, they were not exactly amongst friends. Carver's smile, if he wasn't careful, would attract too much unwanted attention…though it did please the Warden that Carver thought so…highly…of her.

As she stared into Carver's bright blue eyes, she recalled something Zevran had told her when she was still a fussy girl from Highever. _"Beauty? Fah, what is beauty? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Are you beautiful? Yes. You are beautiful like a sword. You catch a man's eye and you intrigue him, just as he is enthralled and intrigued by the sight of a sharp and glinting blade." _If Carver's attraction stemmed from him thinking her pretty, or from her being his leader, or even from her being the Hero of Ferelden, the Warden really wasn't sure. What she _was _sure of was her own feelings. As handsome and well-muscled as Carver was, he held little other attraction for her. She did not find him particularly interesting or engaging. Were she, perhaps, fifty, and he still at his tender age, she might have changed her mind. But Carver was no older than she was, and brought nothing to the Warden that she did not already possess.

So when it was that she smiled back, it was with a slyness and a squint of her eye that showed him her suspicion. Carver was immediately taken aback by it. He blinked rapidly, and the Warden having seen the effect, chuckled and turned to Sigrun. She chatted with the dwarf briefly, before once more engaging Oghren in conversation. She nodded to Nathaniel and Anders when they left the table, though neither of them said their farewells to anyone but each other – and so her action went unrecognized, but not unnoticed. Sigrun was the next to leave, excusing herself and smiling wickedly at Carver, pointing to her eyes and then to him, as if to say, "I'm ready for you." And last to leave was Oghren, who needed to go refill his flask.

Carver and the Warden sat alone at the table, with Varel's shadow hovering in the background.

"So," Carver said, giving her that smile again.

"So," she replied, settling back against the chair. She inhaled and closed her eyes, and removed her hands from the table so that Carver could not touch her. "Are you ready for Sigrun?"

"Yeah. I think I am."

"Good. I look forward to seeing you two fight. I may learn a thing or two."

"You're supposed to be the best."

The Warden laughed aloud at that. "I am very good, but I am by no means the best. I have lost plenty of times." She opened her eye and touched one finger to her eye patch. "Such is the price of failure."

"Well, you're only human. But you're still really good."

"Maybe." She broke out into a grin despite herself – she knew what he wanted. "You want to train against me, don't you?"

Carver nodded.

"Ah, hahahaha. Well," the Warden appraised him with a quick glance, "if you beat Sigrun, you can try your luck against me."

"Consider it done."

"I already have."

8-8-8

Midday rolled over Amaranthine in a wave of sun and heat. The sky was endlessly blue and there was not a single cloud to be seen. There was a light breeze, but it was so gentle it did not even disturb the hems of the loose tunics that the Grey Wardens wore, nor did it tousle their hair or cool their features. The sharp rays of the sun cut across their faces, drawing beads of sweat from their skin as a sharp blade draws blood. The sweat droplets rolled in rivulets down their foreheads and noses, and pooled at the napes of their necks where it stained the pale fabrics they wore.

There were only six Grey Wardens in the courtyard. Six Grey Wardens, Cauthrien, Garevel, Varel, and a handful of the Silver Order that were being considered for the Grey Wardens. They were waiting for their Arlessa, their Commander of the Grey. Loghain was doing his best to contain his disappointment, his chest puffed out from where he was trying to stifle the sigh on his lips. Beside him, Cauthrien was staring at the doors to the Vigil proper with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. Garevel and Varel did not seem concerned, and were both engaged in a quiet conversation with one another.

Meanwhile, the Grey Wardens that had come for practice were gathering their wooden training swords and pellets, arming themselves as they saw fit. Nathaniel was sourly looking at the small wooden balls caked with chalk that were supposed to represent his "arrows." Anders, meanwhile, was staring at his hands, grinning, and then setting them on fire before blowing at them comically and letting the fire dissipate. Carver, Sigrun, and Oghren were all swinging their blades and feeling the weight of the wood in their hands.

Loghain and Cauthrien had just about given up hope that their Arlessa would join them and had turned away from the Vigil when the sound of barking and the creaking of wood reached them. Stepping out of the Vigil and into the sun came the Warden with Dane at her heels. She was still in her armor, but she had donned her helmet, and was also carrying her shield on her arm. She strode towards them with the clattering of finely beaten metal against thick leather strapping.

"My apologies for being late," she said. Her helmet obscured the top half of her face, and so the only thing to denote her humor other than her voice was the slant of the metal around her lips and jaw. She was smiling, at least for the moment. "I got caught up in the letters that arrived this morning."

Loghain grunted and nodded his head, but it was Cauthrien who was more forthcoming with what was on her mind. "I think you may be a bit over dressed."

The Warden looked down at her armor, and then back at Cauthrien. Her smile went frosty. "Over dressed? Come now, I thought the purpose of these exercises was to learn to fight with one another? I promise you, I fight very differently in my dinner tunic than I do in my armor." As far as the Warden could remember, the Grey Wardens that had been training in Weisshaupt wore their full gear.

Cauthrien sighed. "As you wish, Warden Commander." She turned to face the other Grey Wardens. She noticed that the Warden did not immediately join them, instead she stood off to the side several paces away, and seemed quite busy adjusting the straps of her shield. The Warden didn't look as though she wanted to mingle, and the other Wardens didn't look as though they wanted to mingle with her. There was a barrier between them. It was only natural that such a boundary existed, for while it was good for a commander to know her troops, it was another thing entirely for a commander to become their friend. There always had to be a certain amount of deference between the soldiers and the officer, a forced distance that was created due to the perils of death. Soldiers died, quite often at the behest of the people who commanded them. Friendships complicated an already tricky process of life and death, and even the most objective of men and women waivered when their friends were at risk. But that didn't mean commanders had the right to consider those individuals under their command as simply beasts to the slaughter. No, a balance had to be maintained, a balance that the Warden would need to discover for herself.

Carver was the one who bridged the divide between the Warden Commander and the rest of the group. He was tapping the edge of his wooden training weapon into the palm of his hand. "That's a bit unfair, don't you think?" asked Carver, looking at the Warden's scabbard. "Steel against wood?"

"I was under the impression it was _real _training." The Warden's smile was tight, her pink lips stretched thin over her lips. "Swords are sharp in the real world, and darkspawn don't throw wooden balls at you."

"The magic is real enough," replied Carver softly with a sour look over his shoulder at Anders.

"That is why I like my shield." The Warden held it up for emphasis, and then tapped its face loudly with her gauntlet. "Fire, ice, electricity, all the magic can do is hit this finely hammered steel."

"Just you wait until I melt it," came Anders's voice. "Or I freeze the joints in your armor so you can't lift it. You'll be cooking in your armor in no time, Commander."

"And a delicious stew of sweat, curls, and charm I will be." She flashed her teeth at Anders in what could have amounted to a smile. "Maybe even flavored with hunks of mage?" She drew her sword and allowed the sunlight to dance along the edge of its blade. "Yes, that will do. Garevel," she called, "I am entrusting my sword to you."

Garevel came trotting at the call, his hands stretched out in front of him to receive the Warden's sword. He watched her eye the dazzling elegance of the blade, its lines clean and simple, before she sheathed it, and unbuckled her scabbard. His gauntlets curled around the simple looking leather of the scabbard when it was offered, and he held the precious bundle close to his chest as he retreated.

Cauthrien oversaw getting the Warden a proper wooden replacement for her long sword, and when the Warden had finally settled on a weapon that she felt was of the correct "weight and substance," Cauthrien mustered the Wardens into action. She led them to the three melee fields that she had created earlier that morning, outlining the boundaries with painted stones so that the combatants would know their limits. Loghain was put against Nathaniel, Carver against Sigrun, and the Warden against Anders. Oghren busied himself heckling Carver. None of the Wardens had an opportunity to observe their fellows in action, since they were too engaged in their own sparring matches. But that was Cauthrien's intent, and also part of Cauthrien's own method of training. Watching was not a substitute for doing. It was Cauthrien's place to watch - to observe - and to report what she saw.

Strolling from fight to fight, Cauthrien's keen eyes watched the interplay from Warden to Warden. Sigrun and Carver were more evenly matched than either of them suspected. Carver was not a slow, sluggish brute and he wielded a long, heavy weapon with surprising speed. His blows were not accurate, but they kept the nimble Sigrun at bay long enough for him to force her out of the match perimeter at sword point. Rather than set Carver or Sigrun up against Oghren, she let them watch the remaining two matches.

Nathaniel could do little against the impenetrable wall of Loghain's shield, though the wooden short sword he used at close range was enough to give Loghain pause as he reevaluated his strategy. Loghain was often forced to step backwards or side step away from a slice. Though he lost ground to Nathaniel, he always gained it back in some way or another. Whether it was herding Nathaniel to the perimeter, or letting Nathaniel exhaust his supply of "arrows," Loghain methodically carried out his strategy. Nathaniel was faster, and quite bright, but Loghain's experience and ability to weigh attacks on a move-to-move basis were thus far winning the match.

Anders was so far undefeated in the training ring, his magic giving him an inhuman advantage. While Loghain, and to a better extent Oghren, had been able to resist the effects of many of his spells, even they had tired after falling repeatedly into grease puddles and chipping away the ice that had frozen their legs to the floor. The Warden was facing the same sorts of challenges, though she was remarkably more adept at avoiding Anders's spells and using her shield in new and creative ways to deflect them. Cauthrien knew that the current Fereldan king was a former-Templar-in-training. Doubtlessly, he had given the Warden some tips. The Warden understood that it only took one spell connecting with her body to effectively end the match, and it was this knowledge that seemed to have Anders gritting his teeth as he tried new, interesting, and non-lethal (for such was the stipulation on his magic) ways to trap her.

Cauthrien estimated she had another ten minutes before she would call the matches a draw, though it was only after five that victory was in sight for the groups. As Loghain ended his match against Nathaniel with a sharp thrust of his sword to Nathaniel's exposed side, the Warden charged headlong, shield up, into Anders. Anders sent out a bolt of frost-laced magic at the Warden's exposed legs, his fingers turning and twisting as he directed and shaped the energy. The Warden saw this; she had anticipated it. She dropped her shield low, slid it from her arm, and darted sideways. Anders was still forming the spell, turning the shield and the air below it into a solid block of ice, as the Warden closed the remaining distance. Anders didn't have time to cast another spell before a blunt, wooden point brushed under his chin.

"I was holding back," said Anders with an insolent, indignant brush of his fingers over the wooden sword tip, pushing it away from his neck.

The Warden was breathing heavily, and sweat was dripping over her lips. "So was I."

Anders scowled as she licked at her sweat droplets, or perhaps he scowled at the realization that there was someone else who could match him arrogance for arrogance. All that mattered to Cauthrien, for it was she watched the interactions between the two with careful eyes, was that the match ended with the Warden's sword touching Anders's skin. Anders, upon winning his matches, wasn't so quick to rein in his prowess. Catching Carver's legs in a block of ice had prompted him to "thaw" Carver with a well placed patch of grease and fire. He'd extinguished the fire long before the ice melted when Carver began to bellow and threaten at the top of his lungs, but Anders had proved his point. It was surprising that the Warden didn't push hers - though there wasn't much she could to Anders with her little wooden training sword, sans give him a few splinters.

"All right, Wardens," Cauthrien said, extending her arm to gesture at the makeshift arenas. "Very well done. Take a moment to collect yourselves, and then I want to see Warden Carver and the Warden Commander front and center, Loghain and Sigrun to my left, and Nathaniel and Oghren to my right. Anders, feel free to watch."

"I'll be the perfect spectator." Anders held up a hand that sparkled and crackled with lightning. He grinned at Cauthrien and flashed his eyebrows at her.

But Cauthrien did not return the smile. She instead turned her attention elsewhere - mostly to the curious interaction between Carver and the Commander. Cauthrien was quite adept at watching without seeing, and from the corner of her eye she observed the strange courtship.

Carver grinned, and then swept a muscled forearm over his forehead. "Maker, it is hot." His black hair was slick with sweat and droplets were dangling from its tips. His forearm not being enough to staunch the flow of sweat that trickled into his eyes, he grasped the hem of his faded tunic and lifted it to his face. He scrubbed and wiped at his nose and forehead, lifting his shirt up to reveal the chiseled cut of his stomach. Each muscle was visible against his flushed skin, though the coarse black hair trailing from the center of his stomach downward was doing its best to obscure much of the musculature. And Carver, knowing exactly _what _he was showing, and exactly _who _he was showing it to, slipped the shirt straight over his head and wrapped it about his forearm. "Ah," he sighed, flexing and rolling his shoulders, "that's better."

The Warden had raised her shield to cover the bottom half of her face - the only part of her face that was visible in her helmet. But Cauthrien could guess why she'd done it - she could almost see the singular pinprick of light from the Warden's eye - the glint of appreciation. "I would hate," the Warden said in a voice muffled and low, "to bruise you too badly, Carver."

Oghren broke out into a round of deep belly-laughter, lowering the flask of ale in his hand as he wrapped an arm around himself. "You look like a woman, Junior. Not enough hair on ya."

Besides the previously mentioned trail leading into the tops of Carver's thin breeches, and the hair over his forearms, there wasn't much else on him. Not that Cauthrien was looking.

"Even mage-boy's got more than you."

Carver tossed his head back. "Why are you looking at my chest anyway? Are you jealous?" He flexed - first the left pectoral, then the right.

The Warden's shield seemed to pull even tighter to her body.

"Dwarven ladies love hair." Oghren tapped his chest lightly with his fist. "You look like a nug."

"And nugs," interrupted the Warden Commander, "are delicious."

"And now," continued Cauthrien, "your reprieve is over. Places, please."

The Warden Commander and Carver were already in position, as was Loghain. Oghren, Nathaniel, and Sigrun took longer to saunter over to their respective partners, with Sigrun asking Cauthrien who she was pitted against again, and Nathaniel still busily whispering away to Anders before Cauthrien had to scold him. "Warden Nathaniel, when you and Warden Anders are finished with your gossip, feel free to let the rest of us know."

Anders flashed her a wide smile. "We're confessing our undying love. Give it a moment."

"_No,_" Cauthrien put her hands on her hips. "_Now._" She received an approving nod from Loghain, but what the Warden Commander's turn of her head meant, she wasn't sure. Either way, Anders stopped speaking, and Nathaniel went to his place against Oghren, and when she was certain that the Wardens were ready, she gave the command to begin.

Loghain did not suffer the same restraints as Carver did in fighting Sigrun. He seemed quite sure in his knowledge about what sort of punishment the dwarf could take. And Sigrun looked delighted at the prospect of taking on a shielded opponent. More often than not, Sigrun's dual oaken knives carved their blunt tips over Loghain's sturdy shield. Loghain was too clever to let Sigrun's obvious feints and ploys get to him, and he caught on quickly to the need to compensate the level of his shield. Sigrun attacked high, but her real goal was always to catch Loghain's knees unguarded, and Loghain being wise to this, he dropped his shield arm several inches to give himself better protection. He ultimately won his match, though it was with great apologies. He caught Sigrun full on the face with his shield, and sent her sprawling backwards. He'd broken Sigrun's nose, as evidenced by the blood pouring out of her nostrils and its crooked tint, but she sat up grinning and it wasn't long before Anders was kneeling at her side and casting a cantrip.

The Warden Commander and Carver were as equally as matched, though their combat was not quite as explosive as that between Sigrun and Loghain. Carver was always the aggressor, rushing headlong into the Warden on his long legs and swinging his sword at her left side. Carver knew, just as everyone else there did, about the Warden Commander's handicap. She had lost her eye on the left side - her shield side - and that was the side she was most vulnerable on. But the Warden was surprising Cauthrien, as she was holding up quite well to Carver's continual left-oriented swings. In fact, that was how she won. Carver's predictability and brute force per swing gave the Warden the perfect opportunity to upset his balance. As Carver attacked her left side once more, the Warden let herself drop to one knee. Carver went up on his tip toes, not expecting the shield to give way with his sword, and the Warden's sword darted out and brushed against the muscled jut of his ribs.

Carver darted away, laughing at where the blow had struck him. "You're supposed to be blind from that eye!"

"I am."

But while the other two matches ended, Oghren and Nathaniel's seemed to drag on. Nathaniel was faster than Oghren, but Oghren did not tire. It didn't matter that he was outpaced, simply because Oghren wasn't outmatched. Bellowing and sprinting and grunting, Oghren was only steps away from Nathaniel, and no matter what Nathaniel did: hurling wooden balls at Oghren, bringing out his short sword, or even jumping clear over him, he couldn't send Oghren off. He lacked Anders's magical abilities, and so he couldn't hinder Oghren's movement. And he also lacked Loghain's thick shield, so he couldn't withstand a straight blow-by-blow encounter with the foam-spitting dwarf. All Nathaniel could do was flow with Oghren's swings, relaxing his muscles and side-stepping obvious strikes. But Oghren ultimately won, elbowing Nathaniel in the groin when Nathaniel was bending like a reed in the storm of his onslaught. As Nathaniel sank to his knees, winded and in pain, Oghren continued to dart and race, letting whatever frenzy that had overtaken him end. He seemed to know better than to attack the kneeling Nathaniel.

Anders, having attended to Sigrun, darted over to Nathaniel's side. Nathaniel waived off his help, shaking his head and wheezing out, "no, no." He did accept Anders's outstretched hand, and letting the mage haul him to his feet, he joined Cauthrien and the other Grey Wardens with a pained expression and a pale face.

"Well done," Cauthrien said. She looked at each Warden in turn. "Hopefully, you each recognize the strengths, weaknesses, and peculiarities of your fellow Wardens' fighting styles, and as we continue these exercises, you'll soon begin to see how you can better adapt your tactics to those of the men and women fighting beside you." She saw faces that were young and old, covered and uncovered, hopeful and reserved staring back at her. Unity was not there _yet, _but it could be. It was a breath away, Cauthrien just needed to move a body half-drowned, with screaming lungs, up to the surface, to break over waves of discord and a glassy sea top of distrust.

"When do I get to set things on fire?"

"Shut up, Anders."

"Make me, Sigrun."

"_Quiet._"

Cauthrien let the Warden do her scolding, though when the Warden didn't seem inclined to say anymore, Cauthrien continued on, "you must be flexible, and willing to adapt. As you can see, we are joined by some members of the Silver Order today. They come highly recommended from Captain Garevel and the Seneschal both. Today, they will be your opponents. Tomorrow, they will be your team mates. Perhaps in the future, they may even be Grey Wardens." Cauthrien was looking at the Warden Commander when she said this - and she saw no change in the woman's lips to note her displeasure or her acceptance. There was only an icy stillness. Loghain had given Cauthrien the idea to incorporate potential recruits for the Grey Wardens from the Silver Order, though if this wasn't an idea shared by the Warden Commander, she was surprisingly acquiescent. "I'll ask the Warden Commander and Ser Winnegrad to step forward."

The Warden Commander did as was requested, brushing past her fellows to stand in front of Cauthrien. Beside her stood Ser Winnegrad. Winnegrad was Cauthrien's age, or at least she looked it. Her red hair was held back with a black leather thong, but tight, wiry curls had escaped and stuck out on either side of her temples. She had blue eyes, and a long, narrow face that bore skin pulled tightly over white scars. She was a veteran of the Battle of Denerim, as well as the Battle for the Vigil. She had been a member of the Amaranthine City Guard, before being conscripted by Arl Howe to fight in larger battles than just fighting crime. And now she was a founding member of the Silver Order. She had come a long way from jailing thugs.

"Warden Commander," Cauthrien inclined her head, "Ser Winnegrad, go to the center circle and draw your weapons. You may commence upon my signal."

Ser Winnegrad gave a firm nod. The Warden Commander did nothing - she simply turned on her heel and shouldered her way through the Grey Wardens to the training arena she'd come from. Cauthrien waited for each woman to arm and orient themselves - the Warden drawing her sword and swinging her shield arm, while Ser Winnegrad's longer, wood capped polearm stood straight and tall in the air - before she gave the signal to start.

At the sound of Cauthrien's cry, the Warden immediately dropped low into a crouch, her legs spread wide and her shield held between her legs. Her shoulders rolled with the rippling of her thighs, and she swayed like a ship at sea. She moved in a strange, loping gait, hopping and darting with powerful thrusts of her legs. It was a familiar sort of style - reminiscent of a spider going after its prey - or a darkspawn, for that matter, on the hunt. Ser Winnegrad didn't seem to know what to make of the Warden's unusual change in style. She released a few tentative jabs of her polearm, each of which was easily avoided. She took a step back, inching closer to the boundary, when the Warden bellowed out something feral and guttural. The Warden didn't speak in words, just emotions. It was a single screech of rage, and Cauthrien noticed how the other Grey Wardens shifted from foot to foot at the sound of it.

Ser Winnegrad became more aggressive with her jabs, sweeping what would have been the wickedly curved blade at the Warden's left-side. Each of these the Warden scurried away from, scuttling like a crab on the surface. But each dodge only sent the Warden scurrying closer. Winnegrad couldn't push the Warden out of the circle, having already given up too much ground from her initial surprise and confusion. It was her undoing, as the Warden continued to edge towards her. Winnegrad no longer had the reach of her polearm to keep the Warden at bay, and then she was soon at the Warden's mercy, with her heels skirting the edge of a boundary stone. One shove from the Warden would have her out of the ring, and one tap of her sword against Ser Winnegrad's cheek would have the end of the match.

But the Warden did something surprising. She stepped to her right, and then sent her shield into Winnegrad's side. Winnegrad fell sideways, half in the circle, half out. The Warden dropped her sword and shield and pounced upon the struggling Winnegrad. She backhanded the woman, and a stunned Winnegrad didn't even cry out. Curiously enough, Winnegrad let out a shocked chuckle, and stared in bewilderment up at the snarling, one-eyed Warden. Cauthrien called for the match to end, but the Warden didn't stop. Instead, she grabbed at Winnegrad's legs and began to drag the woman away. Winnegrad let out another peal of shocked laughter.

"Stop laughing and fight me!" the Warden bellowed, her chest heaving as she dragged Winnegrad's lightly-armored form along the training grounds. "Fight me! Scream! Kick! Stab at me!"

But the Warden's jeering only made Winnegrad laugh even more, the woman covering her face with her gauntlets at the absurdity of it.

The Warden made it twice around the training ring before she at last threw Winnegrad's legs down to the ground and knelt beside her. She took the woman's chin roughly between the claw of her gauntlet, and brought their faces together. Her upper lip curled in disgust. "Allow me to explain, O Would-Be Warden, what has just happened. What is happening even now as we speak. Because you did not fight me," the Warden hissed, "I have now taken you into my warren. My brothers and I have ripped what pretty, shiny armor you wear from your body, and laying you bare on the slick putrification of our floor, we begin to violate you. We fuck you," she growled, "we spit on you, and we unmake you. And when we're through, we remake you in the image of our mother.

"You should be begging me for death right now. Except you cannot. Your throat is filled with bile and blood and flesh, because all you will know now is a hunger unmatched. You will eat, and you will grow, and you will breed, and you will be unrecognized, and unmourned. And all because," the Warden drew in a ragged breath, "you did not fight me." She sent the woman another sneer and stood. She stretched her arm out, sweeping it across the line of Silver Order recruits. "You all wish to be Grey Wardens, and you wish to fight beside us. And I can teach you how to fight darkspawn," the Warden called out, "and I can teach you how to kill them - but I cannot teach you how to _survive _them. And for that reason alone, Ser Winnegrad," the Warden didn't even look at the woman, she looked at Cauthrien instead, "you can never be a Grey Warden."

Cauthrien raised her eyebrows at the speech, and at the sudden sullenness that had come upon the Grey Wardens. Normally boisterous Oghren was silent, and Sigrun had turned whiter than the milk she had taken a liking to. Anders and Nathaniel were no longer whispering their love to one another, and Loghain's jaw was visibly clenching and unclenching. It was only the Warden who, cool, unflinching, and sauntering with what seemed to be a deliberate swinging of her hips, looked unmoved by the words she had spoken. Winnegrad was visibly shaken, and had eyes wide with confusion. What Varel thought was difficult to say, as the Seneschal was wearing his perpetually worried expression, and this was echoed on Captain Garevel's face to a lesser extent. The only ones who seemed to know what had happened were the Wardens, and they didn't look talkative.

When the Warden did, finally, look down at the open-mouthed Ser Winnegrad, it was to extend her hand. Winnegrad hesitated several moments, staring between the gauntlet and the Warden's grim mouth.

The Warden let out an irritated puff of air and smacked her lips. "I am harsh, Ser Winnegrad, but I am not cruel. Take my hand; I'll not drop you."

Winnegrad took the Warden's gauntlet and was hauled to her feet in a cloud of kicked-up dust. "Arlessa," she said gruffly, with a curt nod of her head.

"You will thank me later." The grimness in the Warden's features lingered, though they were tempered by the softening of her lips at their corners. "Trust me."

"As you say, Arlessa." Winnegrad looked away from the Warden, her angular features pointed towards the opposite end of the courtyard.

"Are there," the Warden turned to look at Loghain, "any more recruits you would have us test today?"

Cauthrien watched Loghain out of the corner of her eye. Years of service had made her familiar with his moods and his temperament. Loghain was somewhere between angry and disappointed, though with Loghain, it was difficult to tell whether he was disappointed in himself, or at someone else.

"No," replied Loghain curtly. "Though I'll suggest we resume our Warden to Warden skirmishes."

"Excellent." The Warden Commander nodded and then gestured to the ring of stones she'd recently stepped from. "I'll be waiting right there for the first Grey Warden who wants a challenge."

The challenge had the appropriate effect, for it drew the back the clouds of fear and uncertainty that had settled on the Grey Wardens. And thus lifted out of their gloom, they returned to their naturally buoyant, if not destructive selves. Sigrun, Oghren, and Carver in particular were lining up for a shot at their Commander, trading jibes about who could get past her shield - and the Warden, for her part, grinned. Nathaniel and Anders returned again to their private conversation, though Cauthrien saw a glimmer of something in the flinty pools of Nathaniel's eyes very time he cast them his commander's way; temptation, if she had to guess. And Loghain, this time, stood apart. He was what the Warden Commander had been earlier - an outsider (well, an outsider with a panting, tail-wagging Dane at his feet). But Loghain wasted no opportunities, and used his distance to speak with Varel, Garevel, and the Silver Order recruits who had come.

And by the end of the day, everything seemed to go back to normal.

8-8-8

"Loghain," the Warden called, knocking on his door with a gauntlet, "hurry up. We'll be late to the council meeting." With her free hand, she held the stack of reports and drawings to her chest.

Dane placed his paw against the door for emphasis, his stubby nails scraping the wood.

"Even Dane thinks you'll be late."

Heavy footsteps on the other side of the door indicated that Loghain's attention had been gained. He opened the door, revealing a face flushed with sleep and a cheek marked with the wrinkles of his pillow.

The Warden smirked. "Did I wake you?"

"As a matter of fact you did." Loghain folded his arms over his chest. He was dressed in a tight-fitting green tunic and a pair of black breeches. He was barefoot, the dark hair standing out in contrast against the stark white background of his toes. "I rather expected you'd forget about me and just go on your own."

"Forget about my favorite Second in Command?" scoffed the Warden. "Never. You've ten minutes to make yourself presentable, and then I expect to see you in the Grand Hall. I'm expecting our guests to arrive within the hour."

"They're coming here?" Loghain raised an eyebrow. "You aren't going to them?"

"Of course not. If they come to me, then they are all on common ground."

Loghain shrugged. "If you say so."

"And I do." She smiled. "Get dressed and come downstairs. Do not make me come find you. Or send Dane after you."

"He wouldn't even make it up the stairs without help."

Dane whined at the insult, and then let his tongue loll out of his mouth when Loghain's fingers brushed over the top of his head in apology.

"Come alone, Dane." The Warden gave a sharp whistle and canted her head down the hall to the stairs. She trotted away with the obedient war dog padding along behind her, his panting filling the silence of the halls they walked through.

Upon entering the Grand Hall, the Warden found the Seneschal dutifully directing the Vigil's staff in the placement of tables, chairs, and refreshments. There were platters of bread and cheese, as well as pots of honey, butter, and jam that had been purchased from Amaranthine City the day before.

"Warden Commander," said Varel, tipping his head. "You look well."

"Thank you." The Warden smiled. "I am hiding my bruises beneath the armor."

Varel chuckled politely. "Still sore, are you?"

"Only if I bend awkwardly," she admitted. The Warden's body had seen worse, but she was nonetheless sore from the challenge she'd set for her Wardens a handful of days ago. While not overly bruised, the Warden was sporting several sore joints. Her forearm, in particular, was the sorest part of her body. As of late, her arm had been aching something fierce - more so than usual. There had always been some lingering pain in the arm, and she had been told to expect as much from Winnifred. The Archdemon had shattered the bones, and its dark magic had lingered in the fragments and below her skin. Though it was healed and (hopefully) purged, it still would twinge from time to time (mostly when the weather was rainy), but the Warden usually could ignore the discomfort. But ever since the night the Warden had suffered what she considered a fit of delusional mania, the ache had grown to the point where she couldn't ignore it as easily. At that moment, she was blaming all the pain in her elbow, forearm, and wrist on the repeated hammering of blows to her shield. Admitting that the pain could be from something else was...not something she was willing to dwell on.

"Ah," Varel nodded. "Should I send for an herbalist or an apothecary from the City?"

"No." The Warden shook her head. "There's no need for that. A day or two of resting should set my body at ease."

"And by rest," Varel said dryly, "I am sure you mean attending to your duties as Arlessa?"

"Why, Varel!" She grinned, "how ever did you know?" Seeing the Seneschal chuckle quietly and then shrug, the Warden took the opportunity to inquire about the food. "Is this for guests only? Or does the Arlessa get to eat it too?"

Varel gestured to the table. "Help yourself, Commander. Though, do try and leave some for your guests?"

"Oh," the Warden drawled as she stalked over to the end of the table, standing on her tip toes as she peered at the various platters and their delicious offerings, "don't worry about that." The table spread was perfect, except that it was missing one very important element. "Varel, where is the wine?"

"It is a bit early for drink, you don't think?"

The Warden looked over her shoulder at her Seneschal.

With his mistress's attention elsewhere, Dane took the liberty to lift his great head and snatch several hunks of bread and cheese from a platter that rested too close to the table's edge.

"Of course it isn't too early." The Warden let out a righteous puff of air. "One cannot negotiate without wine. You." she pointed to an elven servant that was discreetly moving behind the Seneschal. "Go to the cellars and fetch up several kegs of the finest we've got. Let no one say that the Arlessa of Amaranthine was not a good host."

The servant gave a quick nod and then darted away to carry out the instruction.

Varel folded his hands in front of him obediently. "Is there anything else missing, Commander?"

"I do not think so." The Warden turned back to the table and ran a scrutinizing grey over its length. "But if I should think of anything, I will inform you." She placed her handful of papers on the corner of the table.

"As you wish." Varel tipped his head courteously - even though he knew the Warden could not see it. Seeing Aura, who had been placed in charge of the Vigil's kitchens by the previous Warden Commander, Varel made his way over to her.

The Warden watched him go through the haze of the mage eye, and thought she saw an unnatural bounce to his slate-grey form. She pursed her lips. Another form was approaching her - one much smaller than Varel, and the Warden would have thought it Sigrun if not for the relative shape of the figure. Sigrun had broad shoulders and slender hips, but this figure had a wider bottom than top, and also lacked the rather boisterous, bubbling gait that Sigrun adopted when she wasn't in battle. The Warden was curious enough as to who was approaching to turn around and look, but doing so would have given up the ruse of her blindness. The figure wasn't making any sound, and it had not called to her, and to turn too soon would be to move without a reason...

"Warden Commander Cousland."

The Warden turned at the sound of her title. It was Ellen Woolsey, the treasurer that Weisshaupt had sent to Andraste. She had never met Amaranthine's new master of finances, as Woolsey had been quite sick upon the Warden's return. Woolsey had kept to the sanctity of her own quarters, receiving help from Aura and Varel where it was required, and had apparently refused Anders's assistance. As Anders had complained loudly at dinner the day previous, "the old cow hates mages. She's only making herself worse off. If she accepted my help, she'd be walking in no time." The Warden restrained her smirk - no doubt Anders felt quite inferior, knowing that Woolsey was now walking about and looking quite well-rested.

"Mistress Woolsey!" The Warden extended her hand. "What a pleasure to see you in good health. I had heard you were sick, and that you were not accepting visitors."

Woolsey nodded. "Indeed, I was not. People are disturbing, fussy creatures and are a detriment to recovery." Woolsey's white hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and she had taken the time that morning to discreetly paint her face. Beyond the subtle rouge on her cheeks, a keen observer could make out the paleness of her skin - but the illusion of good health she had painted was quite convincing. And dressed in her simple grey gown with black sash, Woolsey's good health was all that one was _supposed _to notice.

The Warden gave a subdued chuckle. "I agree. Will you be joining us this morning?"

"I will."

"In that case," the Warden crossed her arms over her chest and leaned forward, "what is the possibility of seeking remedy from Weisshaupt for our darkspawn related injuries?" Woolsey was a great deal shorter than the Warden, and the Warden's neck twinged at the angle she held it.

"Weisshaupt is not normally in the habit of funding the reconstruction of non-Grey Warden outposts." Woolsey's dark eyes were as unyielding as her words. "If you were asking doe money for the Vigil, then Weisshaupt would likely fund a quarter of the reconstruction. However, I take it you are not."

"I am, actually," the Warden half-lied. "The Vigil is not in the state it should be - it wasn't when I left, and it certainly isn't now that I've returned."

"You would have to promise that the entirety of all funds received from Weisshaupt would only benefit the Vigil."

The Warden raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that why you're here? To oversee appropriate use of Grey Warden funds, as well as all the necessary investment and donation matters that arise?"

"Of course." Woolsey smiled. "I merely have to make sure you understand my purpose."

"You manage my money," replied the Warden coyly, "you make sure I don't spend it all in one place."

"Indeed."

"What if I want the Grey Wardens to fund the entire reconstruction of Vigil's Keep? What would I have to do to make that happen?"

"Truthfully, Warden Commander," Woolsey sounded almost apologetic, "there is nothing you can do. If Amaranthine was as well-established as Val Royeaux or Montsimmard, you might have a compelling request. However, Amaranthine has not yet reached its potential. It could still fail, and Weisshaupt would not be willing to invest much wealth into Amaranthine until it was sure of its success."

"That makes no sense." The Warden frowned. "Val Royeaux and Montsimmard, by virtue of their establishment, would have the funds in their respective coffers to rebuild their compounds from the stones up. Anything Weisshaupt would contribute would be negligible in comparison. Moreover, both such cities likely have dedicated patrons, or at least a willing monarch, who subsidize them in part. We have no such thing. If anything, Weisshaupt should be spending more money on _us _because we lack not only patrons, but coin in general. What good is the coin if it is sat on? There's no utility in it. Gold has to work; it has to be spent."

Woolsey chuckled, and it was not unkind, though her mirth did not quite reach her eyes. She had listened, but she was not sympathetic. "You may be right, Warden Commander. But even if you are, it makes no difference. The Vigil would still be too much of a liability for such a large capital investment."

"It still makes no sense."

"I am sure you could manage the money better."

The Warden nodded. "I could. If I was First Warden, it would be one of my first acts. I would," she paused, "I _will _change such policies, and I will make them fair, and more importantly, I will have them make sense."

"With all respect, Warden Commander," Woolsey responded with a shake of her head, "if I was you, I would focus more on my current relationships with my neighbors, rather than on my dreams of ascension within the Grey Wardens. I'll tell you what you have to do." Woolsey drew the Warden close. "You need to establish a web of donors if you are to survive. Without a current stream of income, you will not last more than a year. And if you cannot find these donors in Ferelden, you can consider crossing Ferelden's borders to find them. Though I do caution you to keep your finances between the Arling and the Grey Wardens separate. I can imagine the Ferelden nobles not looking favorably on your Arling being subsidized by Orlesian charity."

"What about trade?" asked the Warden. "What do I have to do to bring in merchants from across Thedas into Amaranthine and to the Vigil? Donors are not enough; nobles are finicky and they make poor decisions with their coin. We need to offer something to Ferelden, to the Waking Sea, if we're to establish any sort of permanent income."

"Tariffs and taxes?" Woolsey mulled over the Warden's words. "Two things: the port at Amaranthine City must be larger, and there must be some sort of incentive for merchants to come. Taxes and tariffs will not work in Ferelden as they do in Orlais. Orlais can act as they do because they are the center of Thedas. Everyone wishes to trade there, and so everyone will pay what they have to in order to do so."

The Warden put a hand to her forehead. "But if we could offer the same environment, but less expensive, why wouldn't they come to us?"

"You lack a reputation. Ferelden lacks a reputation."

"How do I get a reputation without the money? It makes no sense." The Warden dropped her hand to her side and sighed deeply. "This is my task for you, Woolsey. Find a way to make us popular with merchants; preferably a way that is palatable for my country."

"Very well." Woolsey gave the Warden a small nod. "Do not expect an immediate answer from me though."

"I just want an answer, that's all."

A loud clatter from behind the Warden had her spinning on her heels to face it. A platter of food had been pulled off the table, and peering around its side, the Warden saw a happy Dane scarfing down as much cheese as he could fit into his mouth. "Dane!" she scolded.

The scolding was followed by a high-pitched wail and the scuffing of slippers across the floor as Aura raced to shoo Dane away. "Oh, naughty!" she chided, chirping the words like a bird, "such a naughty dog!" Aura was joined shortly by Varel, who knelt beside Dane and began plucking those pieces of cheese he had yet to eat off the floor and onto the platter that Aura had salvaged. "He has chewed the edge!"

"Of course he did," said the Warden at the woman's rather inane comment. "His teeth are quite strong." She knelt opposite Varel, one gauntlet recovering cheese, the other holding Dane in place with a firm hand on his collar.

"You need to discipline him, Arlessa," Aura scolded, scowling at the Warden from behind eyelashes as golden as her hair.

"If you had put a platter of food on the floor for him," replied the Warden airily, "he wouldn't have stolen from the table. As it is, I am the only who provides any sort of accommodation for Dane's meals - mostly at the expense of my own dinner." It was true for the most part. If Dane wanted food, and he wasn't resorting to stealing, the Warden had to give him the food. The servants at the Vigil had yet to start bringing an extra plate with food for Dane. "He isn't a stranger; at least," the Warden looked up at the standing Aura, "he isn't a stranger to most people at the Vigil. Poor Ser Dane," she crooned. "Poor, starving, Ser Dane."

On command, Dane sat on his haunches and raised his dark eyes to Aura. He let out a low, mournful whine, tilting his head first left, then right.

Aura had to look away. "In the future, I will make sure he is properly seen to."

The Warden ducked her head and smiled. "Show her how that makes you feel, Ser Dane."

Dane barked and raised his hindquarters so that he was standing once more. He trotted over Varel and the Warden's outstretched arms and sent a quick lick to Aura's exposed fingers.

Aura winced and made a face as Dane licked at the hand that held the platter. "Err...yes. Nice dog, yes. Nice dog."

The Warden chuckled and stood. She clicked her tongue and Dane returned to her side. "He likes you."

Aura said nothing to that. She merely lowered the platter for Varel as he scooped up the last of the cheese in both his gauntlets and dropped them atop the wooden plate.

The Warden helped Varel to his feet, and then watched as he escorted Aura to the kitchens, the two walking side by side with their heads tilted towards one another. With their departure came Loghain's arrival, and he strode into the Grand Hall in full polished plate and braids. He looked magnificent. And the Warden told him as much.

"You look every part a Teyrn, General, and Second-in-Command," praised the Warden.

"How fortunate for me," he replied curtly, "that I was all of those things." He gestured to the food, and at Woolsey who was seated at the far end of the long table. "Quite a spread."

"All we're missing is the wine."

Loghain pointed over her shoulder. "I think it just arrived."

The Warden turned to look at where he was pointing. She was expecting to see a servant overcome with the weight of a cask, but instead it was merely Carver. "You are no better than Anders or Nathaniel if you tease him like that. Besides, what has Carver done to you?"

Loghain shrugged. "He talks back to Cauthrien. She's started calling him 'Ser Mouth' in private. He has trouble following orders when you aren't around. I have a hard time believing he called himself a soldier."

"Well," the Warden replied dryly, "in perspective, I can think of a few people who have a hard time calling me 'Commander,' and others who have a hard time calling you 'Warden.' In short: we are all damaged people, Loghain, drawn together by subtleties that we are not aware of."

Loghain only grunted in response. He moved past the Warden and towards the table. With one hand he picked up her stack of papers and handed them to her, and with the other he reached out to snag a piece of bread. The Warden took the papers while he chewed the bread thoughtfully.

Carver approached them a sour expression on his face. "The cook told me I couldn't have anything."

"They're for our guests," explained the Warden. She put the tips of her fingers on Dane's head. "It isn't for our breakfast, unfortunately."

Carver's eyes looked at Loghain, then at Loghain's hand, and narrowed. "He's eating it."

"I'm a guest in attendance," Loghain said around the mouthful of bread. He chewed vigorously and then swallowed. "I am allowed to eat it. And as I recall, you are the one who wanted me to be here, Hawke."

Carver opened his mouth to speak, but stopped with the Warden raising her hand.

"Remember, Carver," the Warden said quietly, "whatever the builders, carpenters, bankers, and nobles don't eat, we'll get to at the end of the day."

"The bread'll be stale by then."

The Warden lifted an eyebrow. "Bread pudding?"

"Point taken."

The Warden tossed her head towards the door. "You probably want to get out of here as quickly as you can. You do not want to be trapped here when that squawking rabble arrives."

Carver chuckled at the Warden's description and nodded his head. "Fine. I'll go see Cauthrien. Maybe she's got something for me to do."

Loghain made a noise low in his throat that earned him a hard stare from the other two Grey Wardens.

"I shall see you at dinner, Carver. Hopefully," the Warden smiled, "earlier."

Carver only nodded, and left. He just made it out a side door when the main doors to the Grand Hall burst open and revealed the long-awaited guests. Behind the group, visible in the courtyard through the open doors, was the servant with the cask of wine.

"Does it ever get easier?" murmured the Warden. "Asking for money that is?"

"No." Loghain shook his head. "It never gets easier. You just get better at doing it."

The Warden sighed through her teeth, which were revealed in the shining smile she wore.

"You will be fine." Loghain turned and touched his hand to her shoulder. "Just keep smiling at them."

As the caucus approached closer, the Warden smiled wider. She'd smile all right; she'd smile until her face shattered. Better that her face be broken, rather than her treasury.

* * *

_So, there we have Chapter 38. We are moving right along and making good progress in this story arc. _

_Law school is, thus far, quite a lot of fun. A lot of reading and writing, but then I was that schmuck in college and business school that did all the assigned reading and took notes on it anyway. So this is nothing new._

_For those of you who are still following along - thank you for reading! I have to give a super shout-out to Gene Dark, who is an endless source of inspiration. Gene, you are the Patsy to my Edina, and ilu._


End file.
